We All Gotta Grow Up Sometime
by IOnlyHaveEyes4You
Summary: "You go visit John Bender in five years. You'll see how goddamn funny he is." Well, Dick, it's been five years, let's see where he and Claire are at. As well as the rest of the gang.
1. Chapter 1

**Author: IOnlyHaveEyes4You, aka Bee**

**I own nothing, I'm doing this for funsies. **

**More notes at the bottom**

"We all gotta grow up sometime."

That was what his grandpop used to say to him when he was a kid, "We all gotta grow up sometime." Grandpop Kirk, his dad's old man, had, according to family lore and oft repeated anecdotes of the past, been quite like, well, like him when he was a teenager. Pulling pranks, hanging out (or "carousing", as he'd called it), picking up girls, and, his personal favorite, driving his school principal up the wall with his antics. With his friends, he'd once stolen the man's bad hairpiece and hoisted it up the flagpole—classic! Another time, he'd bribed the school choir to sing Stuff Smith's "If You'se A Viper" at the annual fancy-schmancy brunch for the schoolboard at the at the Hilton Chicago in lieu of the expected and much more "acceptable" "America, The Beautiful".

"Every year, the choir would sing for the board," Grandpop Kirk had orated to his rapt young grandson, wearing a smirk that would eventually look identical to his own. "Of course, I knew that. So, I gave the maestro ten bucks to change the song to 'You'se A Viper.'" Grandpop Kirk cackled at the remembrance, smacking his knee with the flat of his hand.

The pint-sized brown-haired boy in the Spider-Man shirt sat at his grandfather's feet whilst the man himself settled his bones into his favorite green suede recliner. That same pint-sized brown-haired boy gazed up at him, plain hero worship in his wide, dark eyes, enthralled at his favorite relative's tales of past exploits.

"What's 'You'se A Viper', Grandpop?" the brown-haired boy asked, his brow furrowing. His new favorite song was "Stairway to Heaven" by Led Zeppelin. However, he also liked stuff from the Jackson Five, particularly "I'll Be There". His father smacked him around whenever he caught his son listening to them, though. He claimed the Jackson Five sang "pansy music".

His dad would always also mutter a stream of slurs following this proclamation the brown-haired boy somehow knew was very wrong to say, even at six.

A corner of Grandpop Kirk's mouth lifted. "It's about pot, kid!"

Grandpop Kirk had never been one to sugarcoat anything, even around his young grandson. But, at that tender age, the brown-haired boy's grandfather's explanation had just left him more perplexed. A song about pots? Or one specific pot? Was it a special kind of pot? Like that big, black one witches cast spells in?

It wasn't until after Grandpop Kirk died when the brown-haired boy was fourteen that he remembered this moment, managed to hunt down a copy of "You'se A Viper", and listened to it on the old record player his grandfather left him. And, as the tune played, that same half-smirk crossed his face, the one he now wore whenever he was wryly amused.

_Talk about a reefer of five feet long,_

_Not too fat and not too strong._

_Now when your throat get dry,_

_And you know you're high,_

_Everything is dandy. _

Fucking perfect. That prank must've been one for the ages.

In any event, after every one of these stories growing up, Grandpop Kirk never failed to conclude each of them with "But we've all gotta grow up some time". When the brown-haired boy, now donning a black Quick Draw McGraw t-shirt, was nine, he finally asked his grandfather what he meant by that.

"Well, kid," Grandpop Kirk started as he carved out a wedge of cake and set it down before his grandson, who dug right in. Unlike at home, Grandpop Kirk always had a stocked fridge. "When I was thirty-three, World War II broke out. I was too old for the draft, but I wanted to do my patriotic duty, so I joined up. At base camp in Tennessee, I met a pretty nurse. Had a whirlwind courtship, got married, stayed so for nearly thirty years."

That pretty nurse must've been his Grandma Nancy. The brown-haired boy in the Quick Draw McGraw shirt grinned.

Grandpop Kirk continued with a sparkle in his eye. "When you're thrown into the thick of war, you're forced to grow up. I was in my thirties, but I was still pretty immature. It took a world war—and the love of a good woman—to get my head out of my ass."

The brown-haired boy's grandfather had made staff sergeant after D-Day, and was sent home after losing an arm during the Ardennes Offensive. All his life, the brown-haired boy's grandfather had pinned up the left sleeve of all his shirts, and he never really noticed.

He was reunited with his Grandma Nancy in early 1945, as well as the twin boys he'd made with her. One, of course, was the brown-haired boy's father, Jake. The other was his Uncle Lou, whom he rarely saw.

Grandma Nancy died in 1969, when the brown-haired boy was two. Grandpop Kirk followed in 1980. After he died, the brown-haired boy caught himself wondering if he and his grandmother were reunited in Heaven or wherever and then, because he was now a teenager, chastised himself for being a prissy little bitch.

After Grandpop Kirk's death, the brown-haired boy found himself utterly lacking in allies, other than the fellow street kids he hung around on the corners with. Lord knew his father didn't give a shit about him—the increasingly regular ass-whuppings were proof enough of that, not to mention the shiny new cigar burn on his forearm he'd just received for spilling paint in the garage—and his ma was too afraid and too far up his dad's ass to come to his aid. He had no other family now, the only person in the world who cared about him was dead, so why bother even fucking trying?

This, at least, was his silent mantra until the last quarter of junior year. Then, everything went balls up.

The Breakfast Club turned everything balls up.

_She_ turned everything balls up.

…_a world war—and the love of a good woman—to get my head out of my ass…_

Well, no disrespect to Grandpop Kirk, but, even though he _had_ the love of a good woman—somehow, someway, fucking miraculously, and God knew she _was_ a damn exceptional woman—not to mention good friends, too, even if one wore tights, another was a dork, and yet another was a bit scary, the brown-haired boy, who was not so much a _boy_ any longer, kept his head firmly lodged in his hole. Against his better judgment. Oh, he _tried—_tried to act his fucking age, to be mature, to be goddamn worthy of her. Sometimes, he even succeeded. Yet, inevitably, he'd pull some dumb shit to fuck it all up and…

…well. Head, meet sphincter. Get to know each other because you're gonna become very acquainted.

Then, one day, life came crashing down atop the brown-haired man's head like so many shards of broken glass. Then, one day, the brown-haired man was _forced_ to surgically remove his noggin from his asshole.

That day, for John Bender, was April 1st, 1989.

**Hello, hello! I'm Bee, and I'm probably way too old to be doing this but, hey. You're only as old as you feel (in which case, I should be about 115, *"It's been 84 years…" gif*). I know I may seem new at this whole fanfic thing but I'm a longtime writer and cut my teeth on here back in the day. I used to write Buffy fanfic as a teenager, mostly AU stuff (that I cringe upon looking at now). I'm working on an original novel but am experiencing the Dreaded Block. I figured I'd return to my old stomping grounds (typing grounds?) to jog my Muse, whom I call Spangly Bob, a potato who flies around my head farting glitter. I considered a few fandoms, including Buffy again, but ultimately went for TBC because, damnit, I need to know what happens after the movie ends. It's one of the most frustrating endings to a perfect movie in history, I swear. **

**I've been working on this for a minute. If I had to label ship-wise, this is foremost a Bender and Claire story, though I will be checking in with the others. And I also added an OC for Brian because everybody deserves love. Though I won't be writing in her POV because I know too much emphasis on OCs can feel Mary-Sueish. **

**Anyway, this was the prologue. The rest of the chapters should be longer. **

**-Bee**


	2. Chapter 2

It would all start on April fucking Fools. Because of course it would. As if that day wasn't confusing enough or anything, society had to go and add some stupid bullshit holiday.

Okay, well, Bender was the first to admit that he'd partaken of and delighted in April Fools in the past. Fuck every other holiday. Christmas at the Bender household blew burrito chunks; his best gift, prior to the formation of the Breakfast Club, had been a carton of cigarettes. Thanksgiving was a joke, too. Like anyone in his house would ever be sober for long enough to sit around the table all cozy-like and go around preaching what each was thankful for. No, until his grandfather died, he celebrated with him and some Chinese takeout. Afterwards, he would usually just grab a McChicken from the drive-thru. Chicken was close to turkey, right?

This all, obviously, was pre-Breakfast Club and pre-Claire. He still snorted in stark amusement recalling when his princess took him to his first Standish family Thanksgiving. In his defense, it was all so frigging _pristine_, so perfect, so _Good Housekeeping_-worthy, that he'd had no choice but to shake the evening up a little. A lot. His pet snake, Claire's Aunt Theresa, and a whole heap of spiked fruit punch later and…chaos.

None of Claire's extended relatives joined the John Bender fan club after that evening—nor did her mother, but she'd already despised him—but he'd made an eternal snickering ally in her older brother, Clarence. Yeah, they were Claire and Clarence. Understandably, the guy went by his middle name, Joshua.

Claire herself was pissed at him for _daaaaaayyyysss_ after that stunt. In fact, it took her brother to run interference on his behalf. She got over it quicker than he would've imagined, though.

Head. Plus. Sphincter.

Ahem. Anyway, April Fool's Day was, and always had been, his kinda holiday. The pranks he pulled, first on the likes of Dick and assorted pains in the ass teachers, then on Sporto, Dorko, and the Princess (he could never get one over on Allison; one year, when he left a live tarantula in the cupboard over the sink, she'd shrugged and kept it as a pet, she still had it), were things of beauty. One he'd played on the Sport the morning he was supposed to present some kind of mock-proposal for…he didn't know what; something to do with toys or some shit…for his Brand Management class, he switched out all his posters and visual aids for ones Bender had spent an inordinate amount of time mocking up himself. They _looked_ just like Sporto's own at first glance, but contained declarations such as "_Yes, I do like to wear tights and roll around on the floor with other guys.", "Do you really wanna hurt me?" _and _"Don't hate me 'cus I'm beautiful_!" That last one boasted, too, a side-by-side picture of Andy smoldering and simpering at the camera he'd discovered just lazing around a photo album like the fucking gold it was.

All of this was interspersed within graphs and pie charts and crap. When Sporto had declared a Business and Marketing major, Bender resolved to somehow weave that into a fantastic prank for the ages. And he absolutely had. The Sport refused to acknowledge his presence for two weeks afterward.

Again, Bender couldn't really help himself. He was _compelled. _And it was Sporto. He and Andy, the two alpha-males of their weird little band of ragtag misfits, were forever trying to one-up each other. Which, in turn, made both Claire and Allison roll their eyes in annoyance. His girlfriend had once compared he and the Sport to dogs peeing on fire hydrants to mark their respective territory. Bender had shut her up by marking her as _his_ territory, though with his hands and teeth and not as dogs did because that was fucking disgusting. Maybe Sporto and Crazy were into it.

So, because of his idol for April Fools, he considered that his targets would find ways to get back at him. Andy certainly would want to. Maybe Big Bri, for slipping that whoopee cushion under his seat—when he was at dinner to formally meet his girlfriend's parents. Heh, that was classic. Claire, doubtlessly. She was _not_ amused when he replaced her expensive conditioner with Nair. She'd worn a hat for weeks then paid a small fortune for extensions.

That was why, for a moment or two, on April 1st, 1989, when his girlfriend showed him The Test, he thought she was fucking with him. Or he was on goddamned _Candid Camera_. Something.

Anything except the reality that she actually was…

He supposed it _really_ began a week earlier. Maybe even before, if he'd been paying closer attention. Every March 24th—and it was always March 24th, no matter what particular day that date fell on—the five (well, six now, Bender supposed) members of the Breakfast Club met up for dinner at Peggy Sue's in Shermer, their unspoken preferred hangout post-Saturday detention of 1984. It was kind of lame, so obviously it had been Big Bri's idea, one they'd all agreed upon the summer after high school graduation and the group's individual lives shifted elsewhere. Sporto off to U of C on that full ride Old Man Clark never stopped crowing about. Allison accepted into the Bachelor of Fine Arts program at the School at the Art Institute of Chicago. Dorktron winning a scholarship to Northwestern, where he was to be pre-med. And Claire joining the Sport at U of C to major in Education. She wanted to be a _teacher_. On _purpose. _Only Hades—or Dick Vernon, same difference—knew why.

As for Bender, fuck him if he was going to college. It was a damn miracle he'd managed to bribe his way through high school and actually _graduate_ that bullshit. He sure as shit wasn't going to put his ass through _more_ school. Not that he could afford to anyway. Tuition prices were insane. Besides, he already had a job with a steady paycheck.

During the summer after junior year, his buddy, Ty, got him a job working for his dad at the carpentry and construction business he co-owned in downtown Chitown. Carter & Craig Construction built everything from living room furniture to suburban houses. At first, he was mostly relegated to desk work—answering phones, filing paperwork, alphabetizing shit, even fetching coffee from the Dunkin Donuts across the road. His official title was "Junior Office Assistant"; Sporto claimed he was a "glorified secretary" with many a laugh, which made Bender scowl.

It didn't take long, though, for that "Junior" to elevate to "Senior", and soon, he was finally doing some legitimate work. After a training period, he graduated to working with his hands, building pieces people actually used and put in their houses and paid him for. A year later, Bender's boss, Big Bill Carter, started taking him on-site, with a paycheck to show for it.

Big Bill regularly praised Bender's work with an affectionate clap on the shoulder. "Damn, kid, you'll be runnin' this place someday."

This always left John Bender in high spirits. Sometimes, he would even whistle on the way home to the apartment that he shared with Claire—"Whistle While You Work" or, his personal favorite, the theme from _The Bridge On the River Kwai_.

So, for the first time, John Bender was actually fucking stable in his life. He had a great job, great (if weird) friends, a great (if bitchy at times) girl, a great apartment (because Claire's richie parents insisted on covering rent), and a not so great car, but he had bought the Trans Am himself, with his own fucking money. That was what counted. Most important of all, he was not in contact with his parents, aside from the odd phone call from his ma to make sure he was still alive, he supposed.

The evening of March 24, 1989, started as the four preceding it. Mostly. They all arrived two by two, as they were all paired off now. Even the Brainiac. He'd met his chick, Jackie Takahari, in one of his Brainiac classes. She was cute, in a Hot Dork sort of way, with long, straight dark hair and thick black glasses over her eyes. She was also a fountain of useless information and prone to rambling, which made her Big Bri's lady mirror image, in John's book.

Everything was fine, at first. Bender cracked a joke when Andy and Allison arrived about how the Sport had traded tights for yuppie suits. Claire hugged Allison and once more goggled and cooed over the huge diamond engagement ring Sporto had given her, and John tried to pretend he didn't notice the yearning looks his girlfriend was sending in his direction. When Brainiac and Lady Brainiac arrived, they announced plans to apply to graduate school at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, a proclamation that made Claire burst out crying. Bender looked at her with a raised eyebrow but otherwise ignored the uncharacteristic display.

John and Andy ordered their usual beers and burgers. Allison and Jackie shared vegetarian pizza. Big Bri still held a candle for PB&J. But Claire only got some lame salad that she barely picked at, which was not like her when they went to Peggy Sue's. She was not with her bitch of a mother or seeing any of her asshole richie prissy-girl "friends" from high school; she knew she didn't have to keep up _appearances _or whatever in front of them. So, he asked her if she was okay, and Claire smiled and assured him that she was fine, but before he could say anything else, fucking Sporto cut in with an overdramatic exclamation.

"Bender _actually_ expressing concern for someone else? Has the world gone mad? Or are you just going soft, _bud_?"

Which, naturally, devolved into a verbal sparring match between himself and the Sport—nothing either of them took seriously; John just liked to argue, especially with Sporto. Bender threw arbitrary barbs at his friend—for the Sport _was_ his friend, as much as he got on his fucking nerves—from "required uniforms" to his pansy-ass, clichéd proposal to Allison in a rented hot air balloon to the fact that he was now driving around in his mom's minivan. Andy, in turn, did not let Bender forget that he could still kick his ass, minivan and yuppie suit or no, and made sure to remind him that he and Claire were technically-definitely living off her parents, a fact that never failed to annoy him at the least and cause him to question his masculinity at the most. He was the guy; shouldn't he be doing all he could to support them?

But he and his girlfriend had had this argument many a time, ad nauseaum. They were living in a pretty nice fucking apartment building, one he never would've been able to afford if his life depended on it. Richard Standish (who was actually a decent enough dude, even if he was another Dick) insisted that if his only daughter was going to live in the Big City, she'd be doing it in the lap of luxury, and no ifs, ands, or buts about it, young lady. John could afford to support them both while she finished up school but it'd absolutely be in an apartment a lot less nice than the one they currently occupied, and in a much worse area. And, as much as living off Mr. Standish's generosity bruised Bender's ego, he couldn't find fault in keeping Claire away from the mean streets.

After dinner came cake. Chocolate. It had a #5 candle on it. Also Brainiac's lame-o idea, to "commemorate the forming of the Breakfast Club and mark the occasion", in his cheesy-ass words. Whatever, Bender wasn't one to turn down an opportunity for cake.

They were also toasting the _unofficial_ announcement of Sporto and Nutso's engagement—the celebration-before-the-celebration Mrs. Clark was eagerly planning on throwing. Half of him couldn't believe Andy and Allison were about to tie the knot. The other half was fucking terrified, because they'd been together just as long as he and Claire, and, aside from cake, Bender also never turned down an opportunity to show up Sporto. But putting a ring on it?

Before Claire had come into the picture, there was a reason he kept girls at arms' length. They earned a special place in his wallet and sometimes in his bed (or on the couch, or the backseat of his car, or against the wall in the girls' bathroom of the Cineplex). Part of him, quite a large part of him, was wary of getting too close. His worst nightmare was turning into that fucklord he called "Dad", a man who claimed to love his wife but who also habitually hurled at her every insult under the sun and got drunk and beat the shit out of her. The mere notion of turning into that madman so freaked him out, he'd decided early on that the "one-guy, one-girl thing" would never be on his plate.

And then March 24, 1984, happened, and Claire knocked the complacent John Bender satellite distantly circling and never ever touching the "one-guy, one-girl thing" planet out of orbit and sent it screaming and crashing head-first into Commitmentville.

It had been easy before, to keep them at arms' length. Because, before her, he'd never really met anyone that was worth all that damn risk. The more time he and Claire spent together, the more he realized she abso-fucking-lutely was.

Now, here they were, five years later. If Doc Brown cruised back in time to when John was sixteen—though why the old man would choose to visit Shermer of all places, Bender had no fucking idea—and told him that, in five years, he was going to be with the same girl he'd dated in high school, he would've asked him where he got his doobage. And yet, here it was.

They had a good thing going. Bender had been by Claire's side ever since she placed that diamond earring in his palm (well, after some hiccups—details). The one that he still wore in his earlobe (because she hadn't turned him into a sentimental schmuck or anything)—although, they hadn't "gone public" with their relationship until the start of senior year. It went unsaid, but both he and Claire wanted to see if this whole…thing…between them went anywhere first before they rocked the boat inside their individual social circles (which now, in hindsight and after a few years' separation from high school, seemed stupid, but whatever) and then, when it became apparent that this was more than just a one-off, they kept it on the down-low because, heh, sneaking around was hot.

"Going public" had its hiccups, at first. What the hell was Queen Claire Standish doing with Burnout John Bender? She wasn't _the_ most popular girl in the school—that dubious honor belonged to Sloane Peterson or Michelle Manning—but she was certainly within that whole orbit. His burnout buddies were not much better. Spuds Kleghorn wondered aloud what Bender had on the princess, speculated something about a dirty video, and Bender had sucker punched him in the nuts for that.

John had found a crappy apartment on the west side shortly after high school, a studio the size of a cardboard box that was way overpriced and dotted with mouse holes. Claire suggested he move in with her in the Loop. He'd resisted at first, determined to make it in his independently rented shithole, but she eventually sweet-talked him into it with a few bats of those pretty eyes of hers and a full pout upon those sexy as hell lips. Those things could drive a man to distraction with a mere glance. He should know.

It helped that her apartment came equipped with two bedrooms, a full-size kitchen, a bathroom with one of those extra deep tubs, a real living space, and a balcony with a fantastic view of Chicago. There was also a fucking indoor pool and gymnasium on the ground floor.

Ah, the perks of being born a richie.

Their relationship was good. They were in a good place. Claire, in her senior year at U of C, was _this close_ to graduating. They had been cohabitating since eight months after he rented his original piece of shit, and, inevitably, they'd fallen into a sort of routine, but not in a sad and pathetic sort of way. He just felt complacent, happy even, knowing for the first time in his life he wasn't wary of going to the place he called home, worried that the asshole who lived there would get rip-roaring drunk and take out his aggression on him. Bender got used to working his 9 to 5 while the princess was in school. She'd be out of class when he got home, where she'd either be hanging out with one or two of their friends or, much more preferred, waiting up for him in the living room. Or, if he was really lucky, the bedroom. Even better.

Had he thought about putting aside some money and buying her a ring? Sure. Obviously. Two people could not be together for five years without those thoughts running through a guy's head. And holy fucking shitballs, he certainly loved Claire to Hell and back. His redheaded cherry—who definitely was not a cherry anymore, and hadn't been for some time—had somehow punctured through the thick armor he wore over his skin five years ago. A princess in pink, and it all started in G-D Saturday detention, under the absurd eye of Dick Vernon.

But, despite how far they'd come, despite how much progress Bender knew he'd made feeling less and less like the irredeemable piece of human excrement his dear ol' dad had used to set aside time regularly to convince him he was, Bender still occasionally heard his old man's voice taunting and ranting at him, and in those moments, he never failed to wonder, even after all this time, what the hell Queenie was doing with him. And she knew it, too. Apparently, he'd get this look on his face, one she called his "Back There Face". In the midst of one of these episodes, Claire would say, very softly, "You have Back There Face", lower herself to sit beside him, and rub the back of his neck like he liked. And hearing her call it that was always so fucking adorable—he'd never admit to using that word—it usually jerked him out of his trance then and there but he pretended otherwise because her ministrations felt so damn good.

Lately, she'd been staying up late, stressed as hell, to work on her thesis, which Bender knew was about further implementing the teachings of foreign languages in American public schools because Claire never wasted an opportunity to test her edits out on him, and to study for her finals coming up. John always figured it was his duty to take her mind off her cares for a while.

Yeah, she knew he was fucked up. Knew Daddy Dearest had _fucked_ him up. Was quite well acquainted with his Back There Face. None of it had scared her off. More surprisingly, neither had she placed any pressure on his shoulders to take further steps in their relationship. Claire had been the same way in high school, come to think of it, allowing him to take the lead in making any declarations or setting any labels. He appreciated it. Hell _no_ was he going to ask her about it, though. "Hey, princess, why don't you hold my balls in a vice about making all those grand gestures I would figure girls like you to hold over guys' heads?"

Yeah, that'd go over _great_.

So, they'd been in a good place. Content. Fucking centered. In no hurry. They weren't even twenty-two yet. There was no rush, right?

But now, Sporto had to go and break out the wedding banns and ruin all that. Fuck. _Fuck._

Claire hadn't been coming down on him or anything, at least not outwardly, but ever since Sporto put that ring on Crazy's finger, John's cool as fuck girlfriend suddenly seemed to become a tad bit more _enamored_ with rushing. She probably didn't mean to do it—maybe this was just some sort of "best-girlfriend-getting-married" thing many of the opposite sex seemed to share—but between her wistful gawking when she thought he wasn't paying attention and the natural competitive nature of his friendship with the Sport, the pressure was starting to build.

He loved Claire. In fact, there were times Bender was sure he'd damn well suffocate under how much he loved that woman. But _marriage_? Jesus. They were too fucking young, weren't they?

Andy and Allison certainly didn't think so. Damnit. _Damnit_!

"…been trying to decide, I'm not sure. I don't know. Which do you guys think?"

"I don't think we could answer that, Brian. Right?" Klepto.

"Yeah, I mean. I know shit about any of this. Sorry, man." Sporto.

"I told him he should do what _he_ wants to do, not feel like he has to follow in his father's footsteps." Lady Brainiac.

"Um, yeah, Jackie's right, Bri. It's your life, right? And I'm sure you'll be, like, way successful no matter what you choose." Queenie.

"Not to mention loaded!" Sporto, again, laughing.

"I don't know." Dorktron, hedging. "What do you think, John?"

"John! _John!_"

Claire jerked him out of his ridiculous reverie, waving her (ringless) hand in front of his face. He jumped, and she stared at him, bemused. He couldn't blame her. He knew he hadn't been donning his Back There Face, but he was distracted and pensive nonetheless. And, naturally, it was all the Sport's fault, with his stupid clichéd proposal and the stupid chunk of change he'd slid onto Allison's ring finger last weekend.

Bender was a dumbass when he asked "Uh, what?" instead of reorienting himself and pretending like he knew at all what the hell the five gathered before him were talking about.

Sporto snorted in amusement. "Smooth, Bender."

John wadded up a paper napkin and hurled it across the table at his friend-slash-nuisance.

It was Claire who responded with a purely princess eye-roll. "We were discussing which concentration Brian should specialize in, neurology or cardiology."

"Oh. Well—"

Dweebie, demonstrably, plowed on ahead, in his dweebie way, before Bender could get a word in edgewise or to offer the opinion he'd asked for, lo John, too, knew shit-all about the medical profession. "I mean, I've, you know, always been interested in the human brain, and—and how it works and all. So…so a part of me really wants to choose neurology, but, um, you know my dad's a cardiologist and always hoped, um, that I'd, like, follow him and join his practice."

Now, it was John's turn to roll his own eyes. He was doing that a lot lately. Likely, he'd picked up the habit from Claire, same as she unconsciously echoed his penchant for splaying his feet atop the nearest available surface. Whenever she caught herself, she looked horrified, which was entertaining.

"Dork, it's your life. Screw what your old man wants," Bender opined, knowing he was right. He loved knowing he was right.

Lady Brainiac, straight black hair tied in a knot and donning the ever-present thick, square-lens glasses over her dark eyes, nodded in agreement. "Thank you."

Brian gnawed on his bottom lip, still appearing uncertain. The neo-maxi-zoom-dweebie of their weird circle had filled out over the years. He was a bit wirier, less beanpole-looking. John figured evendorks had to out-dork themselves sometime or another, at least outwardly. The fuzzy mass atop his head remained, though, and his sense of style continued to leave something to be desired. Claire had attempted to make Big Bri over many a time, but it never stuck. Today, he wore a sweater vest the color of puke over an oxford tucked into jeans that looked both too tight and too loose at once. It was amazing, really.

"But, John, I don't know. My dad—"

"Oh, piss on your dad." Bender did not have the patience for this tonight. No, siree.

Beside him, Claire glared, that little wrinkle appearing between her eyes. Bender was quite acquainted with that wrinkle. "John!"

He shrugged and stuffed another forkful of cake in his mouth. When he swallowed, he continued. "Look, Bri. Do you wanna study neurology?"

Brian paused for an instant, then nodded. "Yes."

"It pulls to you more than cardiology?"

"…Yes."

John rapped on the cheap chrome and plastic tabletop with his knuckles. "Then choose fucking neurology. Show your old man that you're your own Johnson. Dr. Johnson, that is." A snicker. Didn't matter how old he got; those jokes would always be funny. "The Sport's right. You'll make tons of money and get to buy a garage full of muscle cars and a house in Hawaii and your own harem."

Big Bri, being Big Bri, blushed at this last. John grinned. He'd never grow tired of making Brian uncomfortable.

A cold fry hit him in the face. Across from him, Jackie was scowling and preparing more deep-fried ammunition pilfered from Sporto's plate. Claire and Allison snorted, plainly amused. "Hey!"

"Th—thanks, John," Big Bri was saying as he wrapped one wrinkled oxford-clad arm around Lady Brainiac in their shared booth. "The cars and the house in Hawaii sound nice. I won't be needing that harem, though. Because, um, I already have a beautiful girlfriend."

Brian kissed Lady Brainiac's temple, and Jackie smiled. The girls beamed at them. John and Sporto traded glances across the table and flattened their expressions. The Brainiac and the Lady Brainiac had been going out steadily for over a year already, and, though John liked Jackie fine—even if she did tend to babble sometimes and talk about weird geek shit, he was used to that—the two of them were quite fond of PDA. Not only was this, as Claire would say, _grody_, but also rather surprising considering Jackie was Big Bri's first real girlfriend, and the kid wasn't exactly what one would call an extrovert. Still, they were partial to pet names and holding hands everywhere and randomly exchanging saliva "just because you looked so cute today, teehee". Honestly, it made Bender want to barf.

Allison and Claire both thought it was adorable, though. Well, Claire more so. Allison was not averse to throwing something at them when they were glued to the lips for too long. A tennis ball. Some leaves. One of her ancient Chuck Taylors.

"Awwww!" the two girls cried, in fucking unison, as if they'd planned it. Claire clapped her manicured hands. "You guys are so cute!"

Brian, once again, blushed. Jackie grinned and placed her head on Bri's shoulder. Bender rolled his eyes heavenward and leaned his head back against the nylon booth. "Gag me."

Claire turned to regard him with pursed lips. Oh, those lips… "That can be arranged."

John smirked. She'd walked right into this one. "Only if you do the honors, princess. In fact, please do. Not here, though. We don't wanna corrupt the young'ns."

Ah, there it was. That beautiful flush Bender loved so much—loved to see it and loved to be the cause of it. Since Claire was a redhead and had this amazing ivory skin (that burned like a crispy critter in the sun; their long weekend on Lake Michigan last year had devolved into Claire lying in the hotel, moaning and groaning and her blistered skin slathered in aloe vera), when she blushed, it was obvious. And he could certainly tell the difference between the real thing and that pink stuff she put on her cheeks. Five years, and another thing he'd never grow tired of.

The others groaned. This time, it was Klepto who threw the fry at Bender's face. "You're disgusting."

Bender winced. That one had hit him square in the eye, making Sporto guffaw. "Stop throwing fries at me!"

Allison threw another fry.

They sat in the booth and shot the shit for another little while. Peggy Sue had no complaints, and neither did Bender. Klepto, Sporto, the Brainiacs, Queenie, and his awesome self didn't get together as often as they used to. Which sucked monkey butts, but that was life, he supposed. They all had their own individual shit now, career goals, living quarters, academic pursuits. Each of them lived within the boundaries of Chicago, but, well, Chicago was a big place, and they all didn't attend the same oversized pillbox of a public school smack dab in the middle of Suburban Hell anymore. Moreso, if the Brainiacs' applications to Johns Hopkins were accepted, two of them were going to be in another state entirely soon enough. But—and Claire had forced them all to swear to this promise on pain of death—they were always gonna be the Breakfast Club and be there for the big things and blah, blah, blah, After School Special nonsense.

John supposed Sporto's proposal to Klepto counted as a "big thing". Their eventual wedding certainly would. Andy was going to have a helluva time talking him into a tux. Bender hated those things; he felt like a penguin in them.

At close to 9:30, after the six had nearly finished filling each other in on their lives at current—Allison and her final project for her Painting and Drawing concentration, a portrait of herself from behind gazing out into a bright Chicago afternoon from the open window of her apartment; Sporto and his internship with Leo Burnett Worldwide; Brian and Jackie's post-grad plans, which probably included eloping or something; Bender's updates on the house in Lake Forest he and his crew were working on; and Claire's stress about her finals—Bender couldn't help noticing that his girlfriend had grown uncharacteristically quiet. Everyone else was talking, trading stories over the table and joking with each other, as usual. Normally, Claire would've been right in the thick of it, tossing in her own opinions or rehashing an anecdote that would no doubt end up embarrassing him.

But, passive she remained, sitting a bit slouched over in the booth, eyes at half-mast, only offering a smile or two and the occasional "Yeah" or "Totally" when prompted.

This concerned John. Claire was a freaking chatterbox. He sometimes pointed the TV remote at her in an attempt to turn her off.

Scooting a few inches closer to her on the cracked nylon, he frowned and placed an arm around her shoulders. "Sweets. You sure you're all right?"

Damn that fleeting smile again. "Yeah. I'm just tired from studying, I guess."

Allison leaned across the table. Huge ass ring glinted under the dangling bowl-shaped lamp. "You know what really gives you a jolt of energy? Pixie Stix. Even better if they're mixed with Coke."

Bender grimaced. "Al, how have your teeth not fallen out yet?"

Allison smirked, revealing her straight, white teeth.

Claire shook her head, short red hair bobbing from side to side. "I'll keep that in mind, Ally, thanks."

At precisely 9:45, Andy cracked his fingers and exclaimed, predictably "Well! I'm still hungry!", signaled their waitress, and ordered a whole new fucking meal, meatloaf this time—"And don't skimp on the mushroom gravy!"

And that was The Moment—you know, that if John's life were a movie, this would be The Moment the people watching could pinpoint to a change in the plot.

Their waitress returned with the heaping, dripping plate of meatloaf; the chefs and definitely not skimped on the mushroom gravy. Sporto's eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas, and he dug right in. Then, a minute later, as the smell of the gravy hit him and he was going to annoy Andy with gravy breath jokes, Claire stiffened beside him.

Bender turned to regard her and, sure enough, she was pale. Okay, she was always pale. But now the effect was less "porcelain doll" and more "corpse". She even appeared a little _green_, and Bender hadn't known that was an actual thing and not just a turn of phrase.

"Claire?"

"Are you okay?" Allison.

"You—you look a little…" Dorktron.

Claire wavered in her seat a little. He didn't like that at all. "I'm okay, I'm—"

And then, those arresting brown eyes of hers widened, she scrambled out of the booth, and gunned it for the ladies' room.

***waves* Me, again! Guten Tag!**

**Note 1: So, in this part, I introduced the OC. Brian reminds me of my friend Todd, so I based Big Bri's gee-eff on Todd's IRL girlfriend, Midori (who picked out Jackie's name, shoutout: I know you're reading this), who is a big fan of the movie herself. She has a signed poster and everything, I have major FOMO.**

**So, yeah, I don't wanna go in *too* deep with her because that can come off Mary-Sueish and Mary-Sues are beasts of no nation.**

**Note 2: I am sprinkling this fic with odes to other pieces of pop culture. IE: "You have Back There Face" is a nod to the "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" line "You have Something Face", which Buffy uttered to Angel just before he broke her heart in a sewer *grumble grumble*. See if y'all can catch any and all of the other nods!**

**Note 3: I have written over 100 pages of this so far but I'm still not done, though I am definitely working on it regularly. It's sparking my Muse.**

**PS: Anything said or done in this fic does not reflect my personal views. I'm just trying to get into the characters' heads and that 80s vibe.**


	3. Chapter 3-Needful Things

_Ughhhhh…_

Claire Standish had known something had been, eh, _off_ the last few days. All right, maybe weeks. She'd been lethargic and headachy, not to mention the weird pendulum that was her mood lately. The other day, she'd snapped at John for leaving an unwashed glass in the sink, knowing that he'd only recently returned home from a long day at work and was tired. Upon apologizing later that night, she'd ended up all but pouncing on him—which, though he'd certainly appreciated the amount of effort she'd expelled to show her sincerity, was not like her. Claire wasn't passive in bed or anything, but John was her first and only, and he'd been much more experienced than she when they first started sleeping together. As such, back then, she'd been bashful and uncertain, and sometimes even now, she questioned herself. So, she usually let him take the lead. He had absolutely no complaints.

Not the other night, though. The other night, Claire was, as John had called her whilst he lay staring up at the bedroom ceiling in delighted bewilderment, a "wildcat".

Last week, she had burst into tears upon reading in the _Chicago Sun-Times_ that Pete Rose was being formally investigated for illegally betting on games. And not just _tears_ either but thick, choking sobs. _Very _weird, considering that she didn't even give a crap about baseball.

And just that morning, she'd woken up feeling tender in the chest area. Like "second day of a really bad period" tender. For a fleeting instance, she considered that maybe her boyfriend had gotten a wee bit carried away the night before pawing at her…but no. John was always incredibly gentle with…those, unless she specifically requested otherwise. _Like my boobs are made of porcelain_. If Claire weren't freaking out at current, she'd be smiling fondly.

In reality, though, she definitely _was_ freaking out, so all she could do was try valiantly not to puke. You know, again.

_Oh, God. I feel so gross._

Before the other night at Peggy Sue's, she'd been able to attribute her headaches and general malaise to staying up late studying and working on her thesis, an argument in favor of implementing a more involved second-language curriculum in American public schools. Claire, as a native English speaker and a second-language French speaker—having learned the tongue in childhood from her mother, who also spoke the language—was quite passionate about the subject matter, and thus had spent many an hour writing and revising and full-proofing her position until her wrist ached. It was easy to blame these symptoms, if they could even be called that, on working too hard.

However, then she started to feel a mite queasy on and off, sort of a low-grade nausea that hummed just beneath the surface. But, again, this was probably just nervous butterflies resulting from finals coming up. No biggie.

She _had_ noticed, over the last few days, that it'd grown increasingly less low-grade. The nausea. The "nervous butterflies". But, again, she rationalized it all in her mind.

When she very nearly vomited all over her new blue velvet Louis Vuitton flats before gratefully managing to make it to the toilet at Peggy Sue's, upon returning to the table, she told everyone that she'd tried something new for lunch that hadn't agreed with her. Even though Claire had only grabbed a soft pretzel from the nearest cafeteria on campus between classes.

Then, the next day, it happened again. This time, while shopping with Allison and Jackie on North Michigan. Thank _God_ the saleslady at the Ralph Lauren store allowed her to use their facilities.

Claire's sudden need to use the bathroom had interrupted Jackie chattering on about the Soviets having elected non-Communist Party members into their version of Parliament for the first time in decades, and when she returned—bashful, annoyed, and hopefully not reeking of puke—Jackie and Allison looked concerned.

"Claire?"

"Is everything okay?"

Claire's answering smile felt weak. "Yeah, sorry. I just, like, really had to pee."

The two girls traded glances, obviously skeptical or weirded out or whatever. Claire couldn't blame them.

When she failed to barf again for the next two days, Claire allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief. The reprieve didn't last long. In fact, the nausea came back with a vengeance, as if it were angry at Claire for daring to ignore it, and she spent entirely too much time on her knees that day bowing to the porcelain god. She ended up skipping her final class for the day because she felt so craptastic.

That was the 28th. Claire valiantly held on to her willful ignorance until the 31st. Then, after dry-heaving because she hadn't _eaten_ anything that morning, she was forced to admit that something was up. Maybe she had food poisoning? Had she eaten something weird after all? What was it? Taco Bell? One of her mother's attempts at cooking French cuisine? Anything in Allison's refrigerator?

Claire knew that she needed to confide in someone—a doctor, most like. But, ugh, she hated doctors, had ever since it took four of them to hold her screaming six-year-old self down for a flu shot. She didn't want to tell John, not yet; she didn't wish to worry him unless necessary (nor did she particularly want to ponder what _necessary_ could mean). She ended up calling Jackie and Allison. Brian's girlfriend was a pre-med student at Northwestern, aimed to be a pediatrician, and Allison was just into gross things. They would have to have thoughts, right?

Oh, but they certainly did.

Claire heard the girls letting themselves into the apartment from the inside of the bathroom, a location she had already visited twice today for non-relieving herself purposes. Claire had had just enough time to buzz them in after the _maître d' _in the lobby phoned the apartment—she and John lived on the nineteenth floor of the Housely Village Tower, one of the more expensive properties in the Loop and co-owned by a friend of Richard Standish's—before the ominous rumbling in her stomach heralded a turn for the disgusting.

Upon weakly opening the bathroom door, Claire took in the sight of her two friends standing there, Jackie wearing a sympathetic grimace and Allison raising an eyebrow in amusement.

Claire scowled at the latter. "And what is so funny?"

Allison's smirk widened. "You look like cra-aaap!" she sang.

Claire crossed her arms over her chest. "Thank you."

Thankfully, it was a Friday. Claire had only one class today—Classroom Management 201—that'd let out early an hour before. _Thank God Professor Goodwin was in a good mood._ Her usually surly prof tended to keep her classes until the last possible second, but someone up there must've liked Claire because they were let out nearly an hour early. Fortunate, considering she didn't particularly think throwing up all over Professor Goodwin would endear the woman to her.

Jackie bade Claire sit on the nearest settee in the living room. As she lowered her weary body into it, unbidden, a memory resurfaced of Claire and her boyfriend purchasing it. After glimpsing it in a boutique furniture store window, she'd run inside, determined then and there to have it. A vintage piece in the neoclassical style, with a matte gold frame and thick forest green cushions, the settee was more an _objet d'art_ than furniture. John had burst out laughing when he first viewed it, declared it the "single most uncomfortable-looking piece of crap" he'd ever seen, and indulged her by putting it together for her anyway. He still refused to sit in it, though.

Jackie dug through her bag of medical instruments, many of which she'd purchased herself at specialty stores. "Okay, I'm just going to give you a cursory examination. I won't draw any blood, so you don't have to worry, though I am certified, but your apartment isn't sterile, as gorgeous as it is, so if you _want_ blood drawn, you need to go to a lab. I can give you—"

Claire winced, picturing a needle puncturing her skin and siphoning her blood. No thanks. "Jackie. Please?"

Brian's girlfriend blushed, her golden complexion lightly blooming with crimson. "Sorry."

Allison, lounging on the floor beside a kneeled Jackie, her legs in the air as she twisted them together like a pretzel, glanced over at the would-be doctor and asked, "You can really draw blood?"

"You learn it in freshman year," she replied after snapping on a pair of rubber gloves and shoving a thermometer under Claire's tongue.

"Can you draw mine?"

Jackie paused in what she was doing, pulling a blood pressure cuff out of her medical bag, to regard Allison over her shoulder. "Uh…_why_? Or do I not wanna know?"

_You probably don't_, Claire thought to herself, lips pulling at the corners. If her mouth hadn't been otherwise occupied, she would've said so out loud.

Allison turned back to the ceiling, her dark hair splayed behind her. "I want to pour some in a vial for Andy to wear around his neck. In fact, could you draw some of his, too?"

Jackie looked grossed out and horrified. Claire just shook her head.

A minute or two later, the thermometer was removed, and the blood pressure cuff around her left bicep was taken off. Jackie studied first one, then the other. "Hmm. No fever. Your blood pressure is 100/70, pretty normal. I'll check your reflexes."

After Claire's reflexes, pulse rate, throat, and ears were examined and each subsequently cleared, instead of experiencing relief, Claire began to feel a true stab of worry in the pit of her stomach. Because she _knew_ something was wrong. And if Jackie's four years of pre-medical knowledge couldn't figure it out…

She'd have to go to a doctor. A real doctor. Maybe there was something really wrong…

Claire's stomach swam, and she raced down the hall towards the bathroom. Diving for the toilet in the nick of time, she expelled the remainder of her lunch.

When she finally managed to stumble out of what was becoming her most visited room in the apartment, an unexpected picture greeted her—that of Jackie on the vintage black rotary phone beside the sofa, in the process of hanging up with whomever she'd been talking to, and Allison staring at her wide-eyed.

Claire suddenly felt very naked under that stare, though she was totally covered in her favorite pink sweater and black Calvins.

"What's going on?" she asked warily, stepping further into the living space. "Who was on the phone?"

Gnawing on her lower lip, Claire watched whilst Jackie and Allison traded glances. Which annoyed Claire, because now she felt out of the loop and the subject of gossip, two things she hated to be. Pursing her lips and crossing her arms over her chest, she added impatiently, "_What_?"

It was Allison who scrambled up from the floor and approached her—slowly, as if she was a frightened Chihuahua. Taking Claire's hands loosely in her own in a very un-Allison gesture, her friend stared intently at her face. It reminded Claire of the look in her eyes when she was badgering her in detention about admitting her virginity.

Claire was instantly on guard. She did not like that look one bit.

"…Claire?" Allison lightly swung their arms between them and squeezed her hands.

Claire, in turn, regarded her sidelong. She half-expected foreboding music to be playing somewhere in the background. "…yeah?"

"Ahmmm…" Allison thinned her lips and narrowed her eyes, which were ringed in a thin layer of black shit. "When was the last time you had your…you know. Monthly Hell."

Her brow furrowed as she thought. "Well, it was…it was…"

She couldn't recall.

Claire looked at Allison. Allison looked at Claire. Both of them turned to look at Jackie, who only shrugged helplessly.

Brown eyes widening nearly out of their sockets, Claire leaned back against the wall behind her, suddenly boneless.

Oh, fucking shit.

There were a few things in his life Andrew Clark could say, with absolute certainty, that he loved very much—his friends, his mom and brothers, Allison, and his awesome new mobile phone. That's right, a _mobile phone_. He could barely believe it himself; he could just walk outside and talk to someone hours away, it was amazing! No wonder Bri loved new tech so much.

For his recent twenty-second birthday, his mom had gifted him with the brand new Motorola 9800X. It was three grand, and he'd tried to convince her to return it. Unlike the Standishes, the Clarks weren't rolling in it. They weren't headed for the poorhouse or anything, but they were definitely more middle class than Claire's family. And ever since his old man and his mother had divorced three years previous—_Finally. That fucking asshole._—the house in Shermer remained one-income. His old man's alimony and child support payments could not always be counted on, which had Andy urging his mom to take his father to court. Carol Clark had three other boys to consider, two of whom were underage and dependent.

Still, his mother insisted. Carol, who was a registered nurse, was so proud of her second eldest for having nearly finished college, she'd been secretly squirreling the money away, determined to buy him the phone. He also would've appreciated a junker car so he didn't have to keep driving around in Carol's old minivan and Bender would stop cracking soccer mom jokes, but the mobile phone was _bitchin'. _

He didn't get much opportunity to use it, alas. Mainly to call his boss at Leo Burnett. Claire had one, but she rarely even took it out of her room; she said it was too cumbersome (it kind of was, Andy had to admit), Ally claimed the phone and the suit made him look like Gordon Gecko, neither Bri nor Jackie had one, and Bender would rather spend his money on other shit, like pot and vinyl.

Andy snorted as he turned and pushed through the doors of the café where he and Brian occasionally met up. When he was downtown for his internship, Bri was just finishing up a class nearby, so they'd meet for coffee—or, in Andy's case, coffee, a croissant sandwich, and a donut or three.

Recognizing his friend seated at their usual corner table, Andy raised an arm and walked over. Brian was really starting to fill out. He'd blend right in on the basketball team at Northwestern. If not for that curly mop on his head. And Bri would probably find some way to geek up the uniform. Today, he was wearing green chinos and an orange sweatshirt.

"Hey, Bri," Andy greeted, sinking down into the opposite chair.

"Hi—Hi, Andy." Brian cupped his hands around a large green mug of steaming coffee. "What's up?"

Andy carefully placed his phone down atop the table and rid himself of his briefcase. "I wanted to get your opinion on the wedding venue, man. You think we should have a church wedding?"

Ever since he had proposed to Allison, and she said yes, this query had been plaguing Andy Clark. Andrew was Catholic on his mother's side and Protestant on his father's side, which meant that, in the event of a church wedding, the ceremony would definitely take place in a Catholic cathedral—whatever it took to further piss off his dad was a-ok by Andy. He wouldn't call himself a great Catholic or anything. It wasn't like he obediently attended mass every Sunday. And when he did go, he sometimes found himself drifting during the homilies, falling asleep or idly perusing the bulletins pinned on the board beside his family's pew. Then there was the time he couldn't stop sneezing during a scripture reading. Carol had made him leave and wait in the lobby.

But he still considered himself a Catholic. Or at least God-fearing. He went to Midnight Mass on Christmas and really frigging early on Easter. That counted for something, right?

His fiancée, though—Andy always inwardly grinned thinking of Allison as his fiancée—was agnostic. She didn't know what she believed, mostly because she didn't care, and also to spite her parents, who were strict Presbyterians. None of this mattered to Andy. Allison Reynolds was his world. She could worship a golf club, it wouldn't make a difference one iota, not to him. His mom, though…

Carol loved Allison. Obviously. She was planning on throwing the engagement party to end all engagement parties. But she really wanted her son to get married in a church. He'd talked to Ally about this, and she'd offhandedly insisted that it was all right, but he still felt weird about it. She clearly wasn't totally thrilled about the idea, and Andy wanted to give his fiancée the wedding of her dreams.

_Engaged two weeks and already, wedding stress. _

Opposite him, Brian took a sip of his coffee. "Well…what does Allison think? Have you asked her?"

Andy waved down a waitress and ordered a mocha java with whipped cream and one of those giant creampuffs. If his order ever breached beyond these walls, he'd never hear the end of it. "She says a church wedding is fine. But…"

Brian grimaced in sympathy. "I—it doesn't really seem fine?"

Andy shook his head. He smiled thinly up at the waitress when she brought his order. "I don't know, Bri. I don't want just _fine_ for her. Ally deserves more than _fine_. I want our wedding to be a day she'll always remember."

A corner of Brian's mouth ticked. "I think she'll remember it no matter what happens or where you have it, Andrew. I, uh, don't imagine you forget your wedding day."

"Still," he replied, swallowing a mouthful of creampuff. Damn, but they made them good here. "I don't want our engagement to be better than the actual wedding. That would suck."

Their engagement had been pretty awesome, if he did say so himself. Ally once told him, lying in bed after a particularly…_shattering_ evening, that, while she was still young, she wanted to one day ride in a hot air balloon. "I always wanted to touch the sky," she'd explained with one of those little laughs he loved; they were pure Allison. "I had a lot of kites as a kid. I was so excited when my dad took me on my first plane trip. But I couldn't reach my hand out the window and touch the sky, it was disappointing."

So, Andy resolved then and there to fulfill Allison's wish. And what better way to do it than by asking her to marry him while floating _in_ the sky?

Andy had come to the conclusion that Ally was the only girl for him, _would_ always be the only girl for him, eons ago. There wasn't a future he could envision without Allison Reynolds standing there right by his side. They had idly talked about marriage, about their future, since they were nineteen, but Andy didn't start seriously considering proposing until the start of his senior year at U of C. Yeah, they were young, but so what? Lots of young couples were getting hitched these days. He had a job secured post-grad at Leo Burnett, he had his own place closer to campus but he practically lived with Ally anyway, all he needed was to make it official.

So, he waited until their fifth anniversary—actually a week before their fifth anniversary, as the Breakfast Club had that standing thing at Peggy Sue's on the 24th—to take her up in a hot air balloon he'd reserved a few months previous. It was black with the skull and crossbones emblem, like if Blackbeard traveled by hot air balloon instead of tall ship. He knew Allison would like that.

Just as they were sailing over an open field of wildflowers, just as the sun was setting and coloring the sky a hodgepodge of pinks, blues, and oranges, Andy got down on one knee and asked Allison to marry him. She squealed and lunged at him so hard, she nearly sent them both tumbling out of the basket; he probably should've thought of that beforehand.

The ring was a real beaut, and completely Allison—the main gem was an ovular black onyx, encircled by tiny white diamonds, while the ring itself was gold. Like his mother, he'd been putting money away to afford just this ring for some time. After seeing it in the jewelry store's display case, he knew he had to buy it for her, and arranged a deal with the jeweler to pay for it in increments.

It was almost all paid for. Just two more monthly installments, and then he could stop having a near heart attack whenever she ventured out in public wearing it.

Brian took a bite of croissant, which mysteriously materialized on a plate at his right side. Andy was sure one of the waitresses had a thing for Big Bri. Morgan, this cute redhead, was always smiling at him and had committed his preferred order to memory long ago. Predictably, Bri brushed Andy's good-natured teasing off with a mumbled "She's just good at her job" accompanied by a flush of crimson.

"I think you need to…to have a more in-depth talk with Allison," he advised now, tearing off a piece of the croissant and dipping it in the coffee. "Let her know, um, th—that it's her wedding, too, and her happiness is important to you. Besides…she's the bride. Doesn't the bride always get final say? Et cetera."

Andy burst out laughing. "Well, Claire would definitely think so."

His friend noticeably and dramatically shivered at the notion of Claire Standish being placed in a position where she could bark orders and everyone and everything and get away with it entirely. "Don't do that to me! That mental image is terrifying."

"Imagine being Bender. If the guy got through it with his balls intact, I'd buy a lottery ticket."

The two boys shared a grin, likely both picturing it. Andy knew he was.

"You're right, though, as always," he continued, wryly quirking one corner of his mouth. Rarely was Bri wrong about most anything. "I'll need to find time to really sit her down and talk to her. I don't want to book anything without truly knowing where she stands." He sipped at the mocha java he definitely was not having and wiped away the whipped cream 'stache with a nearby paper napkin. "How are you and Jackie?"

Brian shrugged, though Andy could detect the dopy smile attempting to pull his lips upward at the mere mention of his girlfriend. Andy himself still tolerated Brian's forays into "oh-my-God-I-really-have-a-girlfriend" inanity, even after a year, but Bender had reached his threshold—not that there'd ever been much of one to begin with. Whenever the three were having a boys' night and their group's resident asshole caught Bri, in his words, "acting a pussy-face, lovesick fool", he'd pull an Allison and throw something at him.

"She's fine," he replied; Andy noticed that the croissant was coming apart at the seams in his friend's fingers now. "You know, we're, um, good. Jackie's gonna take me to the opera next week. With her mom."

What went unsaid, hanging in the air between them, was the thought "But not her dad, because he hates me". The Takaharis had been wary of Brian at first, Andy knew, but the big guy quickly won Jackie's mother over with his intelligence and bashful manner. Mr. Takahari, though, was another story. He largely considered Brian to be a distraction in his daughter's studies, and preferred her to wait to date until after she'd graduated from university. Preferably with her Masters. Or Ph.D. Brian was not used to parental or authority figures so openly and ardently disliking and disapproving of him.

Andy had suggested that he ease into it with Mr. Takahari—you know, try to find common ground and go from there. Bender, on the other hand, was full of advice of a different sort.

"Dude, she's an adult, she can do what she wants. And evidently, what she wants to do is you, Big Bri." Brian's face had become suffused with such a deep red, Andy was afraid he'd pass out or need to go to the hospital or something. Bender cackled. "Take your chick and flip the old man off. Or, if you really wanna get at him, I know a guy who can whip together a stink bomb in a jiffy."

Sneering in disgust, Andy shook his head. "Sometimes, I have no idea why Claire puts up with your ass."

Bender lit a roach and inhaled. "Me neither."

"What are you seeing?" the Business and Marketing major asked now, taking a bite of creampuff.

"There's a performance of _Carmen_ at the Lyric Opera of Chicago. I've, um, always w—wanted to see—see it, so Jackie invited me along. Um, she inv—invited her dad, too, but, um, he didn't wanna go."

Poor Brian. His self-conscious stutter always grew worse at the mention of Jackie's father.

Andy opened his mouth to reply—he didn't know exactly what he was going to say, to ease the situation; Mr. Takahari was a stubborn bastard if he ever knew one, and he'd never even glimpsed the man—when he was suddenly cut off by a shrill ringing sound. It took him too many seconds to realize that said echo was blaring from the direction of his three-thousand-dollar phone, which remained lying face-side down on the table. Reaching for the device, he pressed the **on** button and brought the super bitchin' mobile phone to his ear. It had to be his boss, Mr. Porras. No one else called him on this thing, not even Allison. He couldn't imagine what he'd forgotten to do, though. Or maybe he'd left something at the office?

"Hello? I mean, uh, Andrew Clark." He still did not know exactly how to answer his mobile phone. A simple _hello_ didn't really express the sheer awesomeness of owning one of these marvels. Yet, stating his name into the speaker felt unnatural and gawky and, thus, not very professional.

Professionalism, it appeared, was not something he needed to fret over just now. For the voice on the other end assuredly did _not_ belong to his gruff middle-aged boss but instead to a twenty-something young lady.

It was Brian's girlfriend.

"Andy?"

Furrowing his brow, perplexed as to why Jackie would be calling him of all people, he replied, haltingly, "Oh. Hey, Jackie. Um, did you need to talk to Brian?"

Bri perked up over his oversized mug at the mention of his girlfriend's name. On the other end, Jackie Takahari paused. "Oh, you're together? Good."

Now, Andrew was quite bewildered. If Jackie hadn't known beforehand that he and Brian were going to be hanging out this afternoon, why the phone call—to _his_ (brand spankin' new, really frigging _cool_) mobile phone?

"I need you guys to do something for me." Another pause. "Actually, it's more for Claire…"

Up went one blond brow. "Claire?"

Across from him, Brian mouthed _"What's going on?" _and Andy just shrugged his shoulders.

Yet another pause. He was starting to become annoyed. "Yeah. Um, do you think you can get to the nearest drug store and buy as many different kinds as you can and then drop them off at the apartment? It's sort of—"

"Wait, wait." Coughing, Andy brought the phone closer to his ear, visibly straining. "Buy as many different kinds of _what_?" Nothing. "Jackie?"

A sigh sounded clear as day over the other end. "Pregnancy tests."

He almost dropped his brand spankin' new and really frigging cool (and expensive as hell) mobile phone on the unforgiving checkered floor as the words echoed in his head. "_What?!_ Jackie, are you kidding?"

At this exclamation, Brian was practically leaping over the table demanding to know what his lady love was saying. Andrew held aloft one finger to silently ask for patience.

"Do you think I'd kid about this? Please, Andy. We'll pay you back. Um, just get as many different brands as you can, okay? We'll see you soon." And the line went dead.

He stared down at the gray device in his palm for a good thirty seconds as if it would sprout wings and fly away. "Holy shit!"

Bri looked like he was going to strangle him. Maroon in the face and his mop of blond curls sticking up and out in every which way, Andy was momentarily afraid his friend would suffer a burst vein. "What?! _What?!_ What'd she _say_, for Pete sakes?!"

Andy almost snickered. Bidding Bri to sit back down, he placed the phone right-side up atop the table and assured, "Bri, relax. Jackie's fine. But, err, she sort of needs us to do…something."

The redness in his face had begun to fade but Brian still looked a bit peaked. "What _something_?"

"It's for Claire. Um, we need to get her a…Jesus."

"We need to get Claire a Jesus?" Two nearly invisible brows knitted together.

Andy could've smacked himself. If he couldn't even say the words "pregnancy test" _now_, what was he going to do when Allison required the same errand of him?

"No! We need to get Claire a…" And here, he ducked, lowering his voice, as if anyone they had any contact with could overhear them. "…pregnancy test."

Brian blinked. Then, very slowly, his eyes nearly outgrew their sockets.

Nodding, he reached into his wallet and left five bucks on their table before beginning to pack up his things. "My sentiments exactly. Come on, we need to get to the pharmacy before it closes."

As they left the café, Bri craned his head to regard Andy. The crimson was completely gone now, though a hint of blanched white had taken its place around the edges of his complexion. "Uh, do you really think that she's…I mean, that Claire's…?"

He blushed, unable to form the words either. At least Andy wasn't alone.

Chuckling incredulously, he answered, "I don't know, man. But would it make me a bad friend if I kinda hope she is just to see the look on Bender's face when she tells him?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes: So, one friend calling another to get yet another friend a pregnancy test, and a guy to boot? Sounds crazy, right? It actually happened to a friend of mine, whose permish I got to use the anecdote for inspo, and to detail it here. We're 22-23, she's freaking out because she's late, her now husband is in Florida visiting his grandma. So our other friend called her boyfriend at the Pharmacy to bring home a test. Then he laughingly told his co-worker. So in the end, everyone knew but him.**

"You WHAT?!"

"I'm sorry! He's the only one with a mobile phone! I'm sorry, I panicked!"

"You're not _supposed_ to panic! You're a doctor!"

"Not yet! I'm just a lowly pre-med student! I'm only twenty-one and it's obvious that you are—I mean, that you _may_ be—I'm _sorry_, Claire! I freaked out!"

"No shit! Holy crap. Holy _crap_! I can't believe you _told_ him! _Them!_"

"You needed a test! So I..."

"Then why didn't you go down and get one yourself?!"

"Because you live on the freaking nineteenth floor and all the drug stores nearby are gonna close soon!"

"So you just _broadcasted_ that I might be…before I even…damnit, Jackie, why not skywrite the damn thing?!"

"I said I was sorry!"

Allison Reynolds was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living room, arms folded over her chest and silently watching the spectacle of the two women arguing before her. Eh, well, she figured _Claire_ was doing most of the arguing; Jackie looked about ready to tear her hair out in apology as the redhead screamed at her for what she'd just done. Namely, phoning Andrew to request her doubtlessly bewildered fiancé to buy a pregnancy test. For Claire.

Which technically meant that both Andy _and_ Brian had learned of Claire's possible condition before Claire herself had. And now, five out of six of them were aware of her urgent need for a test or four. All of them except one who'd be directly impacted if those one or four tests blinked positive.

Honestly, Allison would've found the whole state of affairs wildly entertaining if it were happening to people other than her best friends. The situation was like something out of a Steve Guttenberg movie.

Allison calmly gazed a few feet ahead of her as her redheaded friend, who'd barely had time to even process that she may be carrying a bun in her oven, paced to and fro, pink manicured fingers raking through her hair. "Oh my God. Oh my _God!_ What do I do? What if they tell someone? What if they tell _John_?! Oh, I think I'm going to faint."

She collapsed into that weird-looking settee, then winced when her back slammed into the thin bars behind her. Scowling at the piece of furniture, as though it had caused all her problems, Claire rose again and threw herself into a cushy loveseat.

Jackie was wringing her hands. The girl wasn't much for confrontation. Ally had witnessed her break out in hives over a quarrel with a meter maid once.

"They won't tell anyone," she replied meekly. Oh yeah, she sounded _so_ reassuring.

"How do you know?!" Claire's voice was muffled, as her face was buried in a throw pillow. The demand had come out like _'Owdyano?!_

Jackie said nothing—at least, no actual words spurt forth. She just sort of stood there, continuing to quake her hands and emitting strange _meep_ noises. Allison was affronted. _She_ was the one who squeaked and did weird stuff in this group!

Unfolding her black leggings-sheathed legs, Allison pushed herself off the floor and nonchalantly walked toward the phone. Once she punched in the number to Andy's mobile phone (a thing he may have loved almost as much as he loved her), she waited a few rings until he picked up with his usual hesitant response.

"Clark here. I mean, uh, hello?"

Ally smirked. Her love could be so sure of himself in many situations, but it was this indecisive quality as they all were trying to grow up and navigate the world, as he feigned this facsimile of an adult when she knew quite well that he would often rather be home playing his Nintendo than pretending he had it all figured out—she found that trait to be one of his most endearing.

"Andy?"

She could practically _feel_ him relax. "Oh, Ally! We got the, um, stuff. We're just waiting in line to pay."

Allison rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "'Stuff'? You can't even say _pregnancy test_?"

The wince was clearly evident in his slightly higher than normal voice. "I'm a guy, okay? I'm trying!"

"You got me tampons once!"

"Yeah, and it was the most embarrassing moment of my life! I almost got you adult diapers, Al. Adult diapers!"

Allison snorted into the receiver. When he'd arrived back at her place, shopping bag in hand and a hangdog, sheepish look on his face, he admitted that he'd almost purchased a small pack of Depends but was fortunately redirected at the last minute by a kindly, and amused, saleslady.

After that, Allison had never again relied on Andrew to fetch her own _necessities. Such a guy sometimes, I swear…_

"You're gonna have to step it up when we're married, Sporto," she snarked into the phone. The apparatus was odd and antiquated, with this superfluous pointy piece on each end and an ultra-curved base. Claire and her _things_. "At some point, I'm gonna need you to run out and get me more 'stuff'."

A sigh was discerned through the crackling static that was always present in the background during these calls. "I know, I know. I'm working on it. Bri and I are almost at the front. We'll see you guys in a bit."

"Okay. And Andy?"

"Yeah?"

"If you tell anyone, _anyone_, what Jackie asked you to do, especially Bender, I won't be able to save you from your fate."

A hearty laugh sounded clear as day over the line. "Are you kidding? I'm saying _nothing_. I wanna see that asshole's face when she tells him."

Allison snickered. She wouldn't be the one to inform him that Claire would probably tell Bender in private. If, indeed, there was something to tell. Why burst his bubble?

"See you soon."

Claire was back on her feet, evidently having recovered from her shock-induced dizzy spell. At least enough to continue yelling at Jackie while alternately pulling her hair by the roots.

"I really can_not_ believe you did that! Oh my God, I think I'm having a panic attack. He's gonna tell. One of them is totally gonna tell before I get a chance to, before I even _know_, and—"

Allison calmly resumed her seat on the floor, her back supported by the leg of an ottoman. "He's not going to say anything."

Claire paused in her harangue and swiveled to stare at her. "How do you know?"

"Because he just swore to me over the phone, on the threat of…" Allison gestured Claire up and down, no other words needed to further designate the _threat_. "Just relax. You're gonna pull your hair out. And then pace through the floor."

The ginger-haired princess gawked at her as if bats had just sprouted from her ears. _Actually, that'd be pretty cool. _"_Relax_? Are you crazy?! Ugh, what am I talking about? Of course you are."

Allison scoffed. "Hey! I'm not crazy. I'm eccentric."

It was the word Andy's mom—_My future mother-in-law_!—had used to describe her during an annual fishing trip the family took every summer. Andy had invited her along, where Carol Clark christened her _a bit eccentric_ after she viewed some of her habits—lovingly so. Wishing to sleep under the stars instead of in the cabin with the rest of the family (she was joined by Andy some time during the night; Carol found them snuggled together in the morning, much to his embarrassment). Sneaking into the kitchen at two AM to fix herself a Cap'n Crunch and Pixie Stix sandwich. Baiting the fishing hooks with gummy worms instead of actual worms—a tactic that actually worked. Leading the entire Clark clan in a singalong to Aerosmith's "Walk This Way" around a flickering campfire. Andy's father grudgingly included.

Claire shook her head, an incredulous expression on her face. "Okay, fine, whatever! I can't calm down, Allison! I may be _pregnant_! And everybody knows except the guy who may have _gotten_ me pregnant!"

Once more sinking down into the loveseat, Claire buried her face in her hands. "As if I'm not stressed enough! I don't understand how this could happen! I'm on the pill, for Chrissakes!"

Allison tapped her chin pensively. "Could you have forgotten to take it one day? Maybe?"

A pause, then Claire lowered her pink-tipped hands and settled them limply in her lap. "I—I don't know! I've been so _crazy_ with finals and—and writing my thesis. I may have missed a day here or…or there. I don't remember!"

Jackie sighed, lowering herself into the bizarre gold settee. "Well. That'll do it."

The princess glanced at the future pediatrician out of the corner of her eye. "You really think one or two days would—"

"You have to take the birth control pill religiously every day or else the cycle's rendered null and void and you have to start all over again," the girl explained with still shaking hands. "Didn't your gynecologist go over that?"

"…he may have," Claire admitted. "I was excited and nervous to start the pill. I guess I wasn't really listening as well as I should have been…"

Allison could relate to _that_ particular combination of feelings. She was also on a method of birth control, an IUD, recommended by her doctor who knew that Allison could have her head in the clouds at times and thus would be more prone to forgetting to take the BC pill. Something that just may have occurred in her friend, who was now understandably bugging. Andy had been psyched not to have to use a condom anymore, and Allison had to admit that there were _benefits_ to going without.

"Oh, God," the redhead continued, groaning. Allison snapped out of her pleasant reverie and watched as she began to massage her temples with her index fingers. "I am so screwed. Like, a ten on the Screwed Scale."

"You might not be," Jackie said unconvincingly. "It…could still be something else?"

Claire snorted. A habit she'd picked up from Bender to express disdain. "So, I could either be pregnant…or I could have some kind of horrible disease. Great! Perfect. Fucking peachy."

Jackie raised her shoulders to her ears helplessly.

The phone rang. Claire had once again buried her face in the cushions and did not appear desirous to move, and Jackie just sat there biting her nails nervously. Blinking slowly, exasperatedly, Allison pulled herself off the floor for the second time and trudged to the chiming phone.

"Don't worry, I'll get it," she droned before bringing the handle to her ear. "'Lo?"

There was a brief hesitation. "Miss Standish?"

Allison bade her voice sound perkier and more…Claire. "Yes, this is, like, she!"

In her peripheral vision, she glimpsed the actual Claire lift head from the pillows, her ginger hair now a bird's nest. Her dark eyes were scowling at her. She knew what Ally was doing.

A bit of tension eased from the disembodied voice on the other end. "This is Olivier, the _maître 'd. _Two men by the names of Clark and Johnson wish to be allowed upstairs. Do you know these men?"

"Totally. Please, Olivier, send them up. And, like, thanks!"

When Allison hung up the phone, Claire hurled the pillow at her head. "I do not talk like that! You made me sound like an airhead!"

Jackie, at least, had stopped gnawing at her fingernails and was now fighting a smile.

A knock sounded on the door of apartment 1907 a few minutes later, and Allison crossed to the foyer to answer it. Andy and Brian stood on the other side, framed by the too-dim lighting of the sumptuous maroon and dark oak corridor that just _screamed_ "rich people live here", the former brandishing a white plastic bag. Wordlessly, her fiancé held it aloft, as if to prove a job well done.

Stepping aside to allow them to pass over the threshold, Brian shed himself of his coat in the front hallway and immediately approached his girlfriend. They spoke briefly, then hugged not so briefly, while Andy bestowed a kiss to Allison's lips. Before he could get a word in edgewise, Claire materialized from out of nowhere, grabbed the bag, and sprinted to the bathroom. The slamming of the door reverberated throughout the apartment.

Andy winced, then gazed down at Allison. "So, uh, do you think she's really…?"

She craned her neck toward the closed bathroom door. "Guess we'll find out soon enough."

Brian Johnson had never felt particularly comfortable in his friends' N. Columbus Drive apartment. Mirroring the awkwardness he'd experienced whenever he was in the Standish home on the posh Sycamore Avenue back in Shermer. The Standishes lived in an enormous white and brick Tudor, one with stately columns and a wraparound porch, that was all old money on the outside and modern 80s polish and spiraling staircases on the inside. Honestly, the place was like a museum—it was very beautiful, very cold, and you weren't allowed to touch anything. Mrs. Standish had smacked his fingers with a turn of the century Japanese hand fan when he'd brushed them against an old grandfather clock in the parlor once.

He had no idea how Claire had lived there for eighteen years. No wonder she'd left practically the minute she graduated. Her brother, Josh, too.

The apartment wasn't as museum-ish as the house in Shermer, but it was still filled with many an outrageously expensive item. Some things had been brought over from Claire's old bedroom, but much of this stuff, from the furnishings to the electronics, were recent acquisitions. From the sumptuous leather couches to the chrome refrigerator in the kitchen to the latest model Panasonic TV, being here tended to smack Brian over the head with how different he and his friend really were, how utterly rich the Standishes were, and how lucky Claire was to have been born into such a family. At least monetarily speaking. Brian wasn't fooling himself that Richard and Nora Standish were ever going to win Parents of the Year.

The whole of the place generally had Claire's imprint on it, but there were touches of Bender also. The dark leather armchair. The NES system atop the top-of-the-line VCR. The Jessica Rabbit standee in the corner, which Brian knew had taken some convincing on John's part when he showed up with it one day. Bender was a proud guy, and stubborn to a fault. He would not accept any piece of furniture, any electronic, any cardboard cut-out of a sexy cartoon character he hadn't purchased himself.

Brian figured this was to justify Claire's father paying the rent for this amazing place. In his mind, anyway.

Yes, Brian felt weird here, around all this money, though it had been his friends' home for nearly four years now. At least Jackie was here with him. She always made him feel less clumsy and awkward and like the odd one out.

_Jackie_. He glanced down at her, her dark head resting on his shoulder, and smiled. Brian had met her a little over a year ago in their shared Medical Terminology 102 course. They were assigned partners in the weekly labs. His girlfriend liked to joke that they fell in love over a fetal pig dissection.

Now, fourteen months later, he often still couldn't believe that such an intelligent, interesting, beautiful girl wanted _him_.

He was glad that his parents liked her. Because Brian had never been very good at standing up to them, but he would've forced himself over Jackie if he'd had to.

If only Mr. Takahari didn't disapprove of him so stridently. Brian sighed. He wasn't used to parents or authority figures so outwardly disliking him. Around them, Brian was soft-spoken and respectful. He earned fantastic grades. He would never _dream_ of stepping out of line or putting Jackie in a situation where she was uncomfortable. But her father disapproved of him still, considered him a distraction from his daughter's studies.

He didn't know what else could be done to win the man over. Andy assured him to be patient. Bender suggested a stink bomb.

"What are you sighing about?" Jackie asked now, staring up at him from behind her glasses. To Brian, her voice sounded like wind chimes.

His lips thinned. "I, uh, was just thinking about the show next we—next week. And Claire. And, um, what's happening."

"Uh huh."

By her wry tone, she didn't buy that for a second. Brian knew she hated when he beat himself up over what her father thought.

Jackie reached down and grasped his hand. "Brian, _please_ don't do that."

He furrowed his brow. "Do what?"

She exhaled, blowing a strand of ebony hair out of her face. "That thing you do. You know, where you get lost in your own head and drive yourself crazy?"

On the tip of Brian's tongue to reply was _The fact that your dad hates me is making me insane_, but he was saved by the bell before he had the chance to voice that dubious response, which he knew would've only led to an argument. Jumping at the too-close, shrill ringing of the telephone, he hesitated only a second before realizing he was nearest and reached over to the side table to pluck it from its hook.

"Uh, hello? I mean, um, room 1907. The Standish-Bender apartment? Um, speaking?"

There was a momentary pause, then a familiar guffaw. "Nice, dweebie. Way to answer. Really. Couldn't have done better. Oscar-caliber performance."

Brian grimaced and ducked his head a bit. "Oh. H—hey, Bender."

Upon uttering the name, both Andy and Allison, who'd been engaged in quiet conversation across the living room, quickly swiveled in the direction of the phone. Brian locked eyes with his friends' slightly widened ones and gnawed on his lower lip, a nervous habit.

"I know, it's crazy. Me calling my own place." He could hear dripping sarcasm in John's voice. As usual. "Listen, Big Bri, is Claire around?"

Unconsciously, his gaze ticked to the still closed bathroom door, the wedge of yellow light beneath the jamb the only indication that someone was inside. Andy, Allison, and Jackie's regard followed suit.

The first reply to formulate on Brian's tongue was "Uh, why?" before the words could reach his brain. He closed his eyes tightly, annoyed with himself. Beside him, Jackie pursed her lips.

There was another beat of silence. He hoped that he had not just caused problems between his friends or anything. "I wanna tell her I ran into Vernon and he's taking me to see _Sesame Street on Ice. _I just can't keep it in any longer; I'm so excited!"

In spite of himself, Brian laughed, and only half of it was awkward. "Hilarious, Bender."

"Seriously, dork. Where is she?"

Once again, Brian glanced at the closed door of the toilet. "She's in the, uh, bathroom."

Across the room, Andy and Allison shared an unsure frown. Jackie inched ever closer to him, trying to listen in.

On the other end, Brian discerned a distinct exhalation. "Still barfing, eh? What the hell did she eat, toxic sludge?"

_Not exactly. _Wincing again, he stuttered, "I—I, um, don't know?"

"Well, just tell her I'll be back late tonight. Overtime. Gotta finish this big ass house in Lake Forest ASAP. The buyer's breathing down our necks. 'I assumed you all would've been laying down flooring by now. You've barely finished the framing or started the electrical. I'm not paying you to sit on your hands and giggle.'" Bender had adopted an affected high-hat accent, intentionally sounding like a pompous ass. "We've only been at it for less than two months. And we had to clear all these trees because he wanted the house in the middle of goddamn nowhere. Stupid richie fuck."

Brian had to grin. _Can always count on John to be his delightful self. _"Sure, I'll tell her."

"What are you doing there anyway? Thought you didn't like the apartment."

A pointed icicle lodged itself inside him, at the base of his stomach. Brian felt his complexion blanch as he locked eyes once more with his friends and stammered out a hopefully adequate response that wouldn't end up with him getting his ass delivered to himself. "Um, I, err, that is, Jackie and I wanted, um, to stop by. Because Claire has—hasn't been feeling well."

Brian's uncle, who worked for the CIA in Virginia, had told him during Christmas one year that, when lying, stick to the truth as much as possible. That bit of advice had always stayed with him. It'd echoed in his head when he told his parents that he got Saturday detention because he'd stolen Dad's flare gun to show his friends and it went off in his locker. Just as it did now, as he carefully walked eggshells around Bender, who still had no idea that he may have gotten his girlfriend pregnant.

"Ah," John answered; Brian let out a silent breath of relief. "Thanks for braving North Columbus to check her out, Brainiac. And thank Lady Brainiac for me, too. Gotta jet or else the foreman's gonna have my ass. Later, dork."

"Later, Bender."

When the line went dead and Brian hung up the phone, his two friends across the room approached him. Jackie stared a hole in the side of his face. "Well?" Andy asked hesitantly. "What'd you say to him?"

"The truth. I just left the 'Oh by the way, Claire may be pregnant' part out of it." Brian shrugged, staring at his lap, then at the closed bathroom door, then at his lap again. "I told him she was still sick and Jackie and I were checking, uh, up."

"Stick as close to the truth as you can," Allison recited, nodding. "A favored tactic among undercover spies. The Resistance touted it during World War II."

Brian wondered if his uncle was an undercover spy. After all these years, he still had no idea what, exactly, the man did at Langley.

Oh, but he hated keeping secrets. He had the capacity—the fact that the real reason behind the one splotch on his permanent record was still kept tightly sealed from his parents after five years was proof of that—but when he was anxious, he tended to babble. And when he babbled, stuff just poured out of his mouth like word diarrhea. Bender was one of his closest friends, but the guy also had the ability to make Brian crazy nervous. It was actually a miracle he hadn't blurted it all out over the phone just now.

"He's working late," he added, playing with his fingers in his lap.

Jackie's lips thinned and she, too, turned to stare at the closed bathroom door. "Something tells me she'll still be awake."


	5. Chapter 5

Claire's friends were in the living room watching _Full House_.

She could hear the damn soppy, cheesy theme music blaring from the 32 inch Panasonic her dad had bought her for her twenty-first birthday while in Tokyo on business.

_Everywhere you look_

_ Everywhere there's a heart, there's a heart_

_ A hand to hold onto_

_ Everywhere you look, everywhere you go_

_ There's a face, there's a face_

_ Of somebody who needs you_

Claire scowled nastily into the mirror where she was gripping the sides of the sink. She really hated that show. John was right. The whole sitcom was nothing but, in his words, "a sophomoric toothache wrapped in a pretty primetime bow". Fucking "TGIF". There was no "Thank God It's Friday!" for her, not today.

_When you're lost out there_

_ And you're all alone… _

_I feel lost. I feel alone. Where's _my_ kitschy theme music? _

Six tests. She had taken six tests. All different kinds. Andy had done as Jackie requested—_I still cannot believe she called him; I could murder if I didn't feel like dog crap run over twice—_and obediently fetched a bunch of various brands of at-home pregnancy test. Clearblue. EPT. Wondfo. First Response. There were also a couple of hCG tests. All required different waiting periods. All whose directions Claire had spent an inordinate amount of time obsessing over and following to the tee so as not to screw anything up.

She didn't need to be any _more_ screwed, thank you.

One hour. Claire had been in the bathroom for one hour. Over one hour. Each test looked like a miniature chemistry experiment upon being opened. Now finished, the eyedroppers lounged inside six paper cups filled partway with her urine (mixed with odd chemicals that had names she wasn't even going to try to pronounce). Six tests, six cups, lined up grossly around the bathroom sink, like toy soldiers. Of pee.

Doubtless, one hour was more than enough time to ascertain if she was gestating a miniature Bender or not. But, for the life of her, Claire could not bring herself to look at any of the results. For, right now, she was at a crossroads. As it stood, at this very moment, she was still Claire Standish, about to graduate from U of C with a Bachelors in Education. Claire Standish, whose major stressors were finishing her thesis on time and studying for finals. After she looked at those tests, she'd either continue to be that person, or…a potential mom _and_ that person.

The notion kept sending Claire into panic mode. She'd vomited twice since she'd been in here.

One more time, she reached for one of the Cups O' Pee. And one more time, her fingers shied away from it as though it was on fire.

_I can't do this. My heart's going to burst out of my chest. I need help. _

Claire reached for the doorknob, slowly turned the brass fixture, and stepped out. Standing just outside the door, she watched as all four of her friends quickly turned to gawk at her in unison. Awaiting the verdict.

She sighed. "Allison, Jackie? Can you guys…I mean, I can't…"

Arms flew up and crashed at her sides helplessly. If there was one thing Claire despised, it was asking for assistance. John called her _Princess_ and _Queenie_, and although the words had been used as biting insults five years ago, they were now his version of terms of endearment, so Claire rather liked them, even as she rolled her eyes when he got overly dramatic and bowed in her presence. But the last thing she was, despite popular belief, was a damsel in distress. If she had a problem, she damn well figured out a solution.

Alas, Claire had no experience dealing with…this.

At once, Jackie and Allison rose from the couch; Andy and Brian went back to watching _Full House_ once they understood the situation. Andy was chuckling at John Stamos. Claire recognized the hair.

Once she led her two friends inside the bathroom, Allison silently took in the assembled Cups O' Pee encircling the sink and nodded. "Can't bring yourself to look, eh?"

_How does she do that?_ Ally had to have a bit of innate psychic ability.

She worried her bottom lip between her two front teeth. "I've been staring at those cups for an hour. Every time I try, my stomach clenches and I feel like I'm going to throw up." _Again. _

Jackie smiled kindly and patted Claire's shoulder. "Why don't you go sit in the bedroom? We'll take a look."

Claire nodded and turned on her heel. _Should I feel weird about allowing someone else to handle something that has my pee on it? _she wondered for a brief second as she trod down the narrow corridor to her and John's shared bedroom. Well, Jackie was going to have to handle a lot of body waste that wasn't her own in due time, if she hadn't already, so better her than anyone else. _Ugh. Grody. Never understood why people want to be doctors. _

It was a ridiculous thought as she stood at this Crossroads Moment, and Claire Standish wondered if she was going a tiny bit insane. Sitting gingerly near the edge of the bed, the flannel bedspread wrinkling beneath her butt, she waited. And peered into the full length mirror attached to the wall directly opposite.

Claire grimaced. She looked a fright. Somehow, this knowledge had escaped her between the hour she had spent taking the tests and staring into the mirror over the bathroom sink. Her ginger hair, usually perfectly styled and coiffed, was frizzy and darting in different directions. Her painstakingly applied makeup had all but melted off. Her skin was wan, magnifying the purplish, bruise-like shadows beneath her eyes, the whites of which were shot through with red. Her reflection was shameful.

She sighed. Crossed to the white oak vanity she'd had delivered from her old bedroom in Shermer, and ran a brush through her hair. It was one of the few things that screamed _Claire_ in here. While the rest of the apartment boasted her own touch, the master bedroom was all John, for the most part. When she'd convinced him to move in with her, she knew he was going to have reservations or feel like a loaf living in a place like this, that her dad paid the rent for. John was proud and stubborn as hell (which Claire could understand, as so was she), and she'd wanted him to feel at home here, so she let him redecorate as much as he wanted, within reason. As in, like, no pictures of naked _Playboy_ playmates lining the walls or painting the entire place black.

So, together, they got rid of the carpet in the living room—"Because I will _not_ live with pink carpeting. You may as well take away my Man Card."—and remodeled to make the bedroom "less girly", in his words. Out went the wrought iron canopy bed with its fluffy white duvets she'd picked out, replaced with a dark wood Olympic Queen size. The sheets were always a variation of red, black, blue, or gray; she didn't mind. The Bart Simpson headboard he'd recently bought had taken some getting used to, though. So, too, had the life-size Jessica Rabbit standee, which he'd moved to the living room a few months ago, as it was already getting crowded in here with all his…stuff. John liked his _stuff_—from the basketball hoop hamper over the bedroom door, to his huge Iron Maiden poster, his VHS collection, and his bulletin board tacked up just to the right of Claire's vanity, which contained, among other things, concert ticket stubs, magazine cutouts, a Guns N' Roses calendar, and a few pictures of them taken over the years. Claire couldn't help but snort at the one of Brian giving John bunny ears, unbeknownst to him at the time (he'd given him a hell of an Indian burn after the Polaroid developed) and smiled fondly at the one of him encircling her from behind that her brother had taken.

Then, of course, there was Pete, John's pet ball python. He lived in an enclosure, complete with a little branch, on top of the dresser he'd built by hand about a six months after he moved in. Black and green, Pete had scared the ever-loving crap out of Claire at first. Much like Indiana Jones, she did _not_ do snakes. And she'd been kind of biased against him for helping to ruin Thanksgiving that one time. But Pete quickly won her over. He was shy and oddly affectionate, for a snake. John liked to walk around the apartment wearing him—and she still did not understand how John knew Pete was a _him_—around his shoulders.

She still did not particularly like to watch Pete eat, though. _Those poor mice._

Claire studied Pete now, draped as he (?) was over the thick decorative branch. He had eaten that morning, so his snake belly was a bit distended.

She wondered if her _own_ belly was going to be a bit—or more than a bit—distended soon enough and asked herself where the hell Jackie and Allison were.

A minute later, as if summoned, Allison appeared, gazing down at a set of directions. In the other hand was clutched one of the tests' results.

Claire gazed at her friend's perplexed visage. "Well?"

"Sorry. They're a little confusing. And they each tell you to do something different," Allison explained, eyes not lifting from the paper in front of her. "Okay, so, this one says…if it's blue, you're pregnant, if it's pink, you're not."

A nod, a nibble of the lip. Allison took a deep breath, raised her other hand, and studied the test.

And frowned. "Oh. _Oh._"

Claire's heart hammered against her ribcage. "What _'Oh'?!_ For God's sake, spit it out, Allison!"

Ally winced, and slowly spun the test around. "Um, it's blue."

Steam roared in Claire's ears. She really, really was going to faint this time. Gripping the flannel bedcover with white knuckles, she struggled not to fall off the earth.

"Don't panic! It—it's just one! Five more to go." Allison's voice sounded as if spoken through a broken bullhorn, or underwater. "Jackie! The second one."

Jackie materialized, studying another test. The look on her face said it all. Jackie Takahari had horrible Poker Face. "Err, well, there are two checks, and two checks means—"

"It's positive." Claire barely recognized her own voice. It was robotic and monotone. Zombiefied.

The two girls raced back to the bathroom to gather the other tests. Truly, it was almost comical; she'd never seen either of her friends so animated before. Neither Allison nor Jackie were ever in a particular hurry, in any given situation. Especially Allison. Jackie would sometimes jog if she was late to class, but Ally took pride in taking her sweet time. Allison Reynolds never hurried, was never late; everyone else was simply early. Which was why watching her and Jackie run into walls, and then each other, like they were starring in a _Three Stooges _film would've been entertaining if Claire's whole little world hadn't been crashing down around her.

In fact, she barely heard either of them when they returned, juggling more tests, and stumbling over results she'd already known were positive. Indeed, she wasn't able to come back to herself, to clear the thundering stampede in her ears, until Ally returned with the last test in hand, one of the hCGs. Her friend unnecessarily held the result to the light, then craned her neck to read the directions in her other hand.

"Okay. This one is…" Back to the hCG test. Her expression came crashing down. "It's positive."

Claire, obviously, knew it would be. But the word echoed in her head anyway. One simple word. Three syllables. And yet, so final.

_Positive. _

_ Positive._

_ POSITIVE. _

"I'm sorry, Claire," Jackie was saying—though, again, she heard it as though spoken through a trombone.

"Do you need us to do…anything?" Allison now, her voice gentler than it ever had been. "You know, _anything_?"

Claire couldn't think about _anything. _She could barely even conceive of _anything_. Lying down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, a memory from long ago was brought forth in her mind.

"_…we'll get the Prom Queen _impregnated._" _

_Mission fucking accomplished, John. _

How the hell was she going to _tell_ him?

It was after midnight by the time Bender arrived home. After freaking midnight. He'd better be getting a massive check for this bullshit.

Eric, the foreman, and his boss, Big Bill, had asked him to stay beyond his usual five or six clocking out time, as had been the case often lately so that the crew could continue work on that fucking house. He had never worked _this_ late, however. _Should be goddamn illegal. _Following working steadily on the Lake Forest house until about 10:40, he drove back to the office downtown to complete some paperwork. He had not realized it would take over an _hour_.

Exhausted, John scrubbed his face with his palm as he stepped off the elevator and into the nineteenth floor corridor. As he ambled down the hall toward the apartment, he, as always, paused to stare at the genuine Picasso proudly hanging on display on one of the oak-paneled walls. It was so _ugly_, with its one eye here and the other there, and its nose where its mouth should be and its ear on the top of its head. And yet, according to Claire's brother, who'd been an art history major at Brown, the thing was worth a cool twelve million easy.

_Christ Almighty. I will never understand the rich. _

Upon reaching he and Claire's shared apartment, he heard a nearby door creak open. Bender quietly sighed to himself; he didn't even have to turn around to know with whom he was dealing with. Their nosy old bat of a neighbor, Mrs. Lowing. Stooped over with thinning gray hair that had the consistency and appearance of cotton candy, the woman looked 100 but was really only in her seventies. She was also, apparently, richer than God, having come from some old money oil baron family. The hag constantly boasted about how she could trace her lineage back to the _Mayflower_, like sharing DNA with people who brought small pox and pestilence and crazy Puritanical shit to the colonies three-hundred years before was something to brag about.

Evidently, in Wealthytown, it was. He didn't get it nor would he ever get it.

In any event, Mrs. Lowing had despised him since the day he moved into this building four years ago. The old battleax was prejudiced against him from the start, likely because he hadn't come frolicking in here dressed as a preppy Brooks Brothers clown while saying crap like "Gee golly gosh, this place sure is swell!"

As such, Bender never wasted an opportunity to piss Lowing off. He intentionally played his heavy metal vomit music as loudly as possible when he figured she was getting ready for bed. He made sure to keep his hair long and, in her presence, in his face, as she'd once snidely made a comment about how "nice boys like that Andrew" keep their hair tidy and well groomed. His hair alone had her convinced that he was a drug addict.

Fishing the house keys out of his jeans pocket, Bender was about to insert the one Claire had marked "**THIS ONE!**" after she grew weary of him forever forgetting which of the little brass things opened which door into the lock when the unfortunately familiar, craggy but also somehow stuck-up voice of his neighbor floated to his ears. "Why are you back so late?"

Bender halted with the key halfway to the doorknob. "Well, Mrs. Lowing, I was just dealing some Quaaludes on Skid Row."

Of course, Skid Row was in LA. But Lowing didn't know that. Hell, she probably had no idea what a Quaalude was, either.

"You've been returning late rather frequently," the battleax continued, blatantly accusatory.

John made a face and pursed his lips. He knew he was not going to get out of this. Turning on his heel, he regarded Mrs. Lowing, Ol' Low N' Grout, Not-So-Sweet N' Low, Night of the Lowing Dead, Low Hanging Fruit, et. al., peering at him half in and half out of 1908.

Bender crossed his arms over his chest. "Keeping tabs on me, Mrs. L.? I'm flattered!"

Lowing scowled. She hated it when he called her "Mrs. L." Which, naturally, was precisely why he did it. "I'm watching you, young man. And I can be very thorough."

"I'm terrified."

Turning again, Bender inserted the **THIS ONE** key in the lock. He could still feel Lowing's beady little eyes on the back of his neck.

_Nosy old bat._ Shutting the door behind him (and double-locking it, as was his residual habit courtesy of living on the Wrong Side of the Tracks all those years), Bender leaned against the door for a moment in relief. _Damn_ but he was tired. He was going to enjoy a hot shower then fall right into bed. Face first, most like.

Alas, that wasn't to be, it appeared. For, when he walked through the front foyer and entered the living space, he took in the unexpected sight of the Sport and Dorktron splayed out on the couch, the latter catching major Zs with his mouth wide open and the former watching a rerun of the _Dick Van Dyke Show_ on Nick at Nite.

A single dark brow rising, Bender glanced at the clock on the microwave in the adjacent kitchen. 12:39. He had not _completely_ lost track of time. So far.

So, what the fuck?

"If you guys are planning a slumber party tonight, might I suggest s'mores? And, ooh! Can we build a campfire?!"

Sporto jerked wildly, hilariously, causing the legs propped up on the coffee table before him to slip, and he almost crashed ass-first to the floor. _Damn, so close_.

The Sport met his gaze. He wore a…very odd expression on his face. It was something between eager and constipated. "Oh! Hey, Bender!"

His voice sounded weird, too. Much too high. Like the fourth Chipmunk.

Up went John's other brow. "You been sucking on helium, Sporto?"

Andy grinned like John figured robots grinned. "Haha, good one. Bri. Bri!" **Poke, poke. **His pointer finger jabbed Brainiac repeatedly in the shoulder until he, too, jerked awake. "Look! Bender's back!"

Dorktron paled. Legitimately blanched, and his eyes widened nearly out of their sockets. "B—Bender! Um, what are y—you doing here?"

The Sport shot Brainiac a look. Big Bri appeared to wish to sink into the couch.

Bender shook his head. "I live here? Last I checked, anyway."

The hell was going on?

His answering laugh was too damn high. "Right. Of—of course. Duh."

Okay, he didn't have the patience for this shit tonight. Crossing his arms over his chest, Bender narrowed his dark eyes, glancing between the Dork and the Sport. "What the fuck are you two doing here this late anyway? You don't exactly appear to be having an impromptu party, unless Nick at Nite and Snoring Soirees are a thing nowadays. And where the hell are your less stupid halves? In fact—" He gave one cursory sweep around the room. "—where's mine?"

Not that Claire was less stupid than he. They were both equally as stupid.

Dorktron and Sporto shared _a look_. Then, Brian stared down at his hands in his lap as Andy answered. "Uh, they're in the bedroom. Your bedroom, I mean."

That, obviously, filled Bender's guttery mind with quite a few pleasant images. Three chicks in his bedroom. But they probably weren't engaged in what his horny Boy Brain had conjured.

Probably.

Bender made a _get on with it_ gesture with his hand. "_And_? They having a pillow fight or something?"

Yet again, his brain took him to a happy place. Sometimes, he wished he could record his innermost thoughts. He'd make a fortune in the porn industry.

Sporto and the Dork shared _that look_ again, and Bender was growing increasingly annoyed. He was ultra-tired, he needed a shower ASAP because he stunk of sweat and sawdust, and he wanted a fucking beer. But here these assholes were, being cagey and shit, either intentionally keeping something from him or trying to psych him out for whatever reason. Bender didn't know or particularly care. He was too damn exhausted for this nonsense tonight.

Throwing up his arms in exasperation, he barked, "Okay, _what_?! Fuck's sake, you two are about as subtle as a tire iron to the forehead."

Brian quickly reached for a (probably flat) can of Coke resting on the coffee table and drank from it. Andy rose from the couch. John watched warily as he approached, then patted his shoulder. "Uh, dude. Claire has something to…tell you."

His brow furrowed. Opened his mouth to reply. Thought better of it at reading the sincerity on the Sport's face.

Shit. Now what?

He'd _known_ something was wrong! When he talked to Big Bri earlier on the phone, the Dork had sounded more skittish and ambiguous than usual. At the time, the Lake Forest house's richie buyer had been breathing down John's neck, so he told himself it was just Dorko being Dorko.

Without a word, Bender shed his denim jacket and walked through the living area, down the hall to the bedroom, a feeling of wary dread hitting the pit of his stomach like a sucker punch.

In the back of his mind, though it had been five years already, a part of him—an increasingly vanishing part of him as time marched on, but one that still existed nonetheless—wondered when the other shoe would drop. When Claire would just get tired of his bullshit for good and kick his ass out. You know, permanently, not just like when they had a fight and he had to spend a day or two sleeping on Big Bri's couch. The last few years, he'd had it too good. Good stuff did not happen to him, as his old man had oh so lovingly enjoyed reminding him pretty much every day for eighteen years.

Standing in front of the closed bedroom door, Bender exhaled through his nose and raked a hand through his hair. Disjointed pieces of whatever conversation the girls were having in there reached his ears, not that they made any sense without context. Whispered snatches here and there.

"…_want to have a_…?"

"…_know we'll support…" _

_ "…am I going to tell him?"_

It was this last that made John's blood run cold—not an easy feat to accomplish. He pursed his lips. He wasn't going to get all emotional and girly and shit, no way. Time to face the music like a damn man.

Whatever that music entailed.

Bender reached for the knob and opened the door.

All three girls glanced up when he walked in, but only Claire met his gaze. She looked an absolute miserable fright. Usually, she was one of those diamond-in-the-rough pretty criers, characterized by a few tears streaming down her angelic face. Now, conversely, she was fully undone and let go—red hair a mess, face blotchy and crimson, eyes swollen from sobbing. Beautifully broken.

Something was definitely up.

On either side of Claire were Jackie and Allison, both clutching her hands. The former sitting legs folded on the bed and the latter kneeling on the floor. The two girls looked away, down at their laps.

Not fucking good. Not fucking good _at all. _

_"You're no good, Johnny. You'll never be good for nothin'. You're stupid and worthless, a fuckin' freeloading son of a bitch." _

Bender forced himself to clear the unwelcome memory of his dear ol' dad's voice from his mind. He couldn't afford to get lost Back There. Not now.

Narrowing his eyes, John crossed his arms over his chest. "Andy said you had something to tell me." Now was not the time for nicknames, either.

Claire swallowed harshly. He could practically hear the _gulp_.

Allison rose from her spot on the floor, and Jackie clambered off the bed. Both gave Claire's hands a squeeze—for support, he figured, whatever the support was necessary for.

"Uh, we'll leave you guys alone," Allison said before departing. Jackie, on her heels, closed the bedroom door behind her.

John walked further into the room, glancing between an obviously distraught Claire and a recently fed Pete, his beloved ball python, languishing comfortably in his habitat. He needed to give Pete a cricket or two later.

If there was a later.

Bracing against the wardrobe he had built, Bender stared down at Claire, trying to ignore the clenching of his stomach. "Well?"

_Fuck. Shouldn't have had those fish tacos for din. _

Claire sighed. Raked a hand through her own already messed-up hair. Then gestured to the white wicker chair at her vanity. It was oversize, with a cushion in the shape of a heart. "You better sit down."

Bender's expression remained unchanged—flat like stone on the outside while, inside, his thoughts were going a mile a minute as he attempted to grasp at some semblance of mental stability. Had he done something? He didn't _think_ he'd done anything. Or said anything particularly offensive. But who the fuck could keep track anymore? Maybe he had and he just hadn't realized…

Or, worse, maybe she met someone. Some kid from school? Probably a richie. Some lame as fuck asshole her mother would doubtless approve of full stop. A pretty boy honky with perfectly coiffed hair, a wardrobe full of Lacoste, and a trust fund.

Bender's fingers curled into fists, already picturing punching the nameless idiot in the face. _Probably some douche named Chad…_

Also in the back of his mind these last four years, he'd worried that Claire would find someone else at that university she went to. After all, there were thousands of dudes there, and Claire Standish was a catch—hot, young, and boasting the Standish name. Her father owned half of fucking Chicago. Everyone knew who the Standishes were.

Those d-bags already had one up on him, at least in Nora Standish's eyes. Well, two, really. They were college educated, and they weren't John.

"I think I'll stand."

Claire's eyes hardened, lips transforming into a stubborn line, and for a second, she was the same old Princess again. "John. Just…trust me. Sit down."

Bender rolled his eyes. He hated being told what to do but acquiesced anyway, pulling out the chair and throwing himself into it. The stupid heart cushion was actually rather comfortable. "Your wish is my command, Princess. Continue."

But she didn't continue. She just sort of…sat there. Staring at her hands in her lap, which were fidgeting with each other. She opened her mouth, closed it. Opened it again. Looked as if she was a hairsbreadth away from bursting into tears all over again.

Indeed, all Claire could manage was "I…I…Oh, God…" before burying her head in her hands.

John's lips twitched downwards. Part of him, a large part, an instinctual part, yearned to go to her. Comfort her. He'd never been any good at that, the comforting thing, but it was a skill he'd taught himself living with Claire. She could be an emotional woman. Especially, err, during that time of the month.

He did not think this was about just being on her rag.

John sort of huff-sighed and leaned forward in the chair, over his knees. "Claire, just…say it. Please."

It was probably the _please_ that did it. John Bender wasn't the type to use that word often, for anything, in any given situation. So, when it _was_ used, those around him knew he meant business. Lifting her head from her hands, Claire stared at him. Her face was still red, but she was also pale underneath the maroon, and there were heavy bags lining her eyes. She looked tired. More tired than him, somehow, and he had just worked a fucking fourteen-hour day.

Claire reached across the divide and took his hand. Also uncharacteristic. When they were…_affectionate_…things tended to go from zero to sixty pretty damn quick. Little gestures weren't really part of their relationship. That was more a lame Dorktron and Lady Dorktron thing.

"John, I…I mean, I need to tell you that I…Oh, for fuck's sake. I'll just show you."

He watched, entirely bewildered, as she clambered off the bed and raced out of the room. When she returned a few minutes later, in one hand was clutched, he thought, a flattened box and in the other…one of the paper cups from the medicine cabinet. With a little white stick in it.

His confusion only magnified when she wordlessly handed him both objects.

"What—what am I looking at?" There was obviously some kind of liquid in the cup, and his gaze kept ticking between it and the flattened box.

Claire looked at him like he was an idiot. Wouldn't be the first time. "John. Turn the box over."

John did so. And silently read the label staring up at him. _EPT: The Error Proof Test. Virtually 100% accurate. In-home early pregnancy test. _

When Bender understood what he had in his hand, his eyes widened, his jaw unhinged, and the empty box went floating harmlessly to the floor. He raised his head, staring across at his girlfriend, who looked at him like she didn't know whether to be terrified or nauseas.

In that moment, he could very much relate.

"Claire," he started, leaning forward a bit more. "Are you trying to tell me that you're…"

Wordlessly, she nodded.

For a minute, just a minute, Bender grasped at the only stupid straw he could think of. "Is this an April Fools' joke? Because it's _not_ funny, Claire. I didn't even _plan_ a prank this year, I swear! I've been too busy—"

Claire pushed herself off the bed, bent down, and picked up the empty box. She looked exasperated. "No, you ass! I didn't even realize what _day_ it was. I haven't been keeping track of the days _at all_ for at least a week! I've been puking my guts out! Don't you remember when I nearly spewed red, white, and blue all over the dining room at Peggy Sue's?"

Bender swallowed past the dry lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. He could not believe that he hadn't made that connection. "You…you said you ate something weird."

She sank back down on the edge of the bed, lightly fingering the wrinkled box, and shrugged. "I lied. You're not the only one who can lie."

John winced. Touché. He'd told some doozies in the past. He was working on that.

"Look inside the cup."

"Huh?" Holy shit, was he articulate tonight or what?

Claire waved to the paper cup with the white stick poking out the top of it clutched in his left hand. Bender was mildly surprised by its continued existence. "The paper cup. It's blue, the…liquid. Blue means positive."

He peered over the rim. It definitely indeed was blue. A deep, toilet-water-after-bleach kind of blue.

"Aren't there false positives all the time with these things? Maybe it's wrong. Maybe we should—"

Claire shook her head. "I took six."

Well, that was that, then.

"Fuck. Holy _fuck_." Bender leaned back in the chair, grateful for the heart cushion.

Once more, Claire buried her face in her hands. He watched her through half-mast eyes.

She was moderately shaking, limbs quivering as though the infamous Chicago chill had seeped deep in her bones. John could hear his heart thudding inside his chest. _Ka-thump. Ka-thump. Ka-fucking-thump_. Simply to say, for the second time in his life, Bender was utterly and completely bewildered. The first time would be five years previous, when Claire showed up to let him out of that closet. He believed he was wearing much the same expression now as he was then.

The difference being, of course, that the _then_ was a delightful shock. The _now_, on the other hand…he wasn't sure what this was.

As what habitually tended to happen in moments of deep worry or stress, thoughts of John's father popped up in his mind, mental images his brain flicked through like a perfectly dreadful flipbook. A projector he couldn't turn off. Jake Bender putting out cigars on his skin. Jake Bender holding his palms over the stove's burners (it had taken a while for Claire to convince him that he needn't wear those cracked leather gloves around her, truly). Jake Bender punching him in the eye for coming home late.

Turning into his old man was John's worst nightmare. And here he was, faced with the prospect of an unexpected kid—just like his parents had been. They'd only been twenty and twenty-three when his ma fell pregnant with him. They rushed to get married, because that was what people did back then, he supposed, because it was "the right thing to do", not out of some deep-seeded love or anything (though Jake sometimes claimed he had "learned" to love his wife). Hell, his folks had only been dating two months. John knew this because, growing up, he was constantly reminded by said folks that he'd ruined both their lives with his mere existence.

The variable here was Claire. Unlike the Benders' marriage—which acted as a giant gaping void on the best of days and a hellfire of rage and broken dreams on the worst—he legitimately loved Claire. But, fuck. John wasn't sure if his old man had always been an asshole or if his mere emergence into the world turned him into one. And that horrified him. Because even the _thought_ of hurting Claire…

A sob broke through Bender's thoughts. Jerking his head from where it had apparently been staring at his lap and refocusing his eyes, he observed Claire, eyes red and swollen, alternately looking across at him—not glowering, just looking—and idly pulling at a loose thread in the flannel duvet. John shifted in the stupid wicker chair. She was looking at him like he had answers, when, in fact, he had none.

"God," the fucking beautiful sobbing mess that was his ginger-haired Princess exclaimed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand in a gesture that was very _not_ pristine. Her gaze met his, and he forced himself not to squirm under the intensity of it. "You know, a week ago, I was just worried about, like, passing my exams and finishing my thesis. Normal college stuff. But—"

"You knew about this for a week and you didn't tell me?"

The words had just spurted forth without his consent—"word diarrhea", was how Big Bri described this phenomenon. At his accusation, Claire looked a combination of murderous and genuinely upset, and John hated himself.

"No!" she cried, slamming her arms down at her sides, a gesture she performed sometimes when she was really angry. Bender secretly loved it on most occasions. But not this one. "I had no idea! I knew _something_ was wrong because I've been throwing up all week, but I didn't put two and two together…or maybe I didn't want to. And then Allison asked when my last period was and I couldn't remember but before that Jackie freaked out and called Andy to get me _pregnancy tests_ before the pharmacies closed so he knew even before I did and then he and Brian arrived tonight with the tests and I took them but I couldn't bring myself to look at the results so Ally and Jackie did for me and we were sitting here for hours while I stressed over telling you and I _should_ feel better but I'm _not_. I'm, like, utterly bewildered and terrified and—and _blind-sided_, so if you can just stop looking at me like that, that'd be...that'd be great…" And she crumpled, like she had expelled all her energy, shoulders slumping, posture drooping, another sob ripping from her throat.

_Fuck._ And Bender crumpled, too. Because this wasn't about just him, not even mostly him. He had to shove his own shit to the side and deal with it later, if it came to that. Right now, he had a girlfriend who was weeping and angry and scared shitless; John knew when he had to be the strong one. When he had to step it up.

Exhaling through his nose, Bender rose and crossed the two feet or so to the bed, where his pile of girlfriend was sitting, crying her eyes out and breaking his fucking heart. "Claire…"

He gingerly lowered himself on the edge of the bed beside her. Claire's arms were enfolded around herself protectively, continuing to emit those dry, choking cries that were like individual pinpricks to his chest. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"Claire," John begged, noting how strained his own voice sounded to his own ears. "Come on, babe. Please don't do that…"

The longer he and Cherry were together, the more Bender hated hearing her cry. Not that he found it annoying or anything, it wasn't that, he just couldn't stand to see her so upset. Especially if he was the cause of it, as was often the case.

She turned and buried her head in his shoulder, muffling her sobs in his gray t-shirt. John rubbed her back with hands that were still lightly scarred from an unwelcome run-in with his jackass of a father and a stove. He didn't know what else to do. Five years, and he still wasn't completely adept at this comforting thing. He tended to get awkward and uncomfortable, though he _was_ trying. But right now, "trying" wouldn't cut it; he had to grow a fucking pair and help her to the best of his ability. Or at least put in the damn effort.

He held her for a few minutes until her sobs gradually began to reduce, if not cease entirely. When she pulled back, just far enough to look him in the eye, he noted that her complexion had calmed a bit, but her eyes were still red and strands of her hair were sticking to her wet face. Without thinking about it, he reached out a hand to wrap a silky tendril around her ear.

When Claire spoke, the words were strained and small and scared and fucking tugged at him. "What do we do?"

John minutely shook his head. When it came to this, he didn't have many answers. But he knew what to say to this one. Sort of. "I can't answer that."

Welcome back that wrinkle between her eyes, but instead of being an angry wrinkle, it was a confused wrinkle. "Why not?"

Bender shrugged, rubbed the back of his neck like he did when he felt insecure, and lowered his arm when he realized what he was doing. He moved an inch closer to her on the edge of the mattress. "Because it's your body? I don't know." He sighed, pushed his hair back from his face. "You're the one who'd be affected, Claire, at least physically. You're the one who'd be carrying…it."

Couldn't even say _baby_. What a fucking pussy.

Claire glanced away, studying her nails. They were chipped, Bender noticed. The Princess' nails were never chipped.

"But…" She still wasn't meeting his eyes. "…don't you have an opinion? Or, like, thoughts or whatever?"

"Of course I do." John cupped her chin, forcing her to look at him. "But, like I said…it's not my body. I'm not the one who's gonna be having it."

And here, those lovely lips of hers curved up a little, through her panic and uncertainty and anguish. "I'd hope not. You'd be a medical miracle."

Bender answered her half-smirk with one of his own. "Don't know. We'd make a lot of money on the talk show circuit. Oprah would go apeshit."

Claire's laugh was also a half-choke.

Sobering a bit, he tugged her to his side. "Look. Whatever you…choose, you have my support. All right?"

Her striking, dark eyes shone as she gazed up at him. "You promise?"

Bender performed the sign of the cross. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

"No matter what I choose?"

"Yeah." Another shrug, then a wince. "Unless it's giving the kid up to a family of circus clowns. I don't want any contact with clowns. I don't like clowns."

Claire snorted in laughter, his intended purpose. "You and your clown thing."

"It started when one tried to grab me on the boardwalk when I was five! Okay, I just don't like clowns!" John shuddered with the recollection.

When she was done laughing, Claire replaced her head on his shoulder. "I don't know. _I don't know. _My mom raised me to believe abortion is wrong, that is what _she_ believes. But then my friend Linda had one in high school, in junior year. I went with her to drive her home after. It was okay, she said she was okay, but…she seemed sad a lot afterwards." A beat, and then, "She told me at the time it was the hardest thing she ever did, but she doesn't regret it."

John hadn't known that. It was not an anecdote she'd ever shared with him prior to this conversation. He figured she never had reason to until now. It meant that she had more experience than he with this…topic, having had a friend go through it, having been there for her. The closest he'd ever come to facing the prospect of _abortion_ was listening to his buddy, Ash, and his girlfriend fight because she missed her rag and she thought he knocked her up.

"And…and your old man?" He stared down at the top of her head, tangled red hair falling over his shoulder.

Claire shrugged to the best of her ability in her position. "He's more liberal-minded than she is. I mean, when Josh came out, he's the one who stood up for him to Mother. Eventually."

John nodded. He remembered that. Josh-slash-Clarence, had come out of the proverbial closet three years before, though Claire had known of his sexual preferences for years before that. She told him, with her brother's permission, the day before he came out to his parents. It was whatever, didn't bother him, "whatever floats your boat", as his grandpop used to say. It had nothing to do with Bender anyway. Just as long as Josh wasn't, like, into him or anything. Josh assured him that he was not, laughing.

That, naturally, had made Bender indignant. There were plenty of dudes out there who would be _all over_ him! All over!

In any event, Nora had gone berserk and thrown him out of the house, where he briefly lived again after losing his job. He and Claire let him crash in the apartment for a few days. It was her dad who showed up to collect his son, then, when his wife exploded, he told her to stuff it.

Not for the first time, or the one-hundredth time, Bender wondered why the Standishes were still together in the first place.

"Maybe _he_ at least won't disown me."

Bender jerked himself out of the past. "Nah, he won't disown you. You're his precious princess. His little girl. The jewel of his eye—"

"I get it, John."

"I honestly don't think there's anything you can do to make that man see you as anything less than exalted. You can be on trial for brutally murdering a whole shitload of people and he'd be like 'My sweet girl murdered those people _the best_! And no one can tell me otherwise.'"

Claire snickered and lightly smacked his arm. It was true, though. In Richard Standish's eyes, his daughter could get away with absolutely anything. She was never in the wrong; everyone else was.

His Princess dangling "_I'd _hate_ to tell my dad about this_" in front of Vernon had gotten John out of a detention or five.

Lightly, unthinkingly, he grasped her hand in his own. Claire raised her tear-stained face to regard him. "I don't know what to do. I just…I need to think about it…"

John nodded. He had figured she wouldn't be able to just…come to a conclusion like _that_. "Take all the time you need, Princess. Well, not _all_ the time. You know what I mean." He could actually feel himself blushing, though not fully understanding why.

"Okay." The reply was barely above a whisper.

Bender cleared his throat awkwardly, not lifting his gaze from their combined hands. Such a contrast. Her fingers were long and elegant, almost perfectly manicured, while his were rough and short-nailed, with grease and bits of wood-shavings around the beds. He wondered what kind of fingers a kid of theirs would have. "You all right now? Less…panic attack-y?"

Claire laughed through her nose. "Yeah. I mean, I guess. I was mostly just…worried about telling you."

Forcing his gaze from their mismatching digits, he turned his attention to her face instead. "Why?"

Another minute lift of the shoulders. "I don't know…"

"What, did you think I was gonna _bail_?"

Glancing down at her jeans-covered legs, she murmured, "I don't know what I thought."

That hurt. But John swallowed past it. Now wasn't the time, he knew that. Chucking her chin again, he forced her to meet his eyes. "I don't run away from my…"

Claire's answering half-smirk was wry. "Mistakes?"

He winced, but, "Yeah."

"Well, it was my mistake."

John's brow furrowed. He was doing that a lot during this conversation. "What do you mean?"

Half-revolving, she again began picking at the loose seam in the bedspread. "I missed a pill. In the cycle. I've been so preoccupied with…school and shit, I didn't even think…"

Bender was quiet for a moment, gazed at his knees poking through the faded denim of his jeans. "And…one dose would make that much difference?"

Claire's shoulders bobbed. "Evidently. Jackie says you need to take it every day or it doesn't work. The gyno probably told me, but I wasn't really paying attention…"

"Nah, don't blame yourself. It's on both of us, Princess," he replied in a low voice, letting his hair fall into his eyes and mock-leering. "We were both avid participants. It's not like someone held guns to our heads and said—"

"John!" Another light smack in the arm. He chuckled, having expected it.

Following a brief silence, Bender recollected something she'd said earlier and raised an eyebrow. "Jackie really called Andy to get you a pregnancy test?"

The genuine giggle was music to his ears. "Yes! She called him before Ally even asked me when my last period was. It was _so_ bizarre. And he was with Brian also."

"Which means both the Sport and the Dork knew you may've been knocked up before you did?"

She nodded. And they both fell into uncontrollable laughter.

When they calmed down again, Claire, still smiling, asked him what was going through his mind when Andy told him she had something to tell him.

"Honestly?" He rolled his eyes a little, trying, hoping, to play it off as nothing. Didn't mean anything that his immediate thought had been… "I figured you had met some other douche. Some richie jackhole with too much gel in his hair Mommy Dearest would wholeheartedly approve of."

Claire blinked. Bender couldn't read the expression on her face, a fact that made him twitchy. Then, she sighed, pursed her still smiling lips, and threw a pillow at his face. "You know, for such a smart guy, you can be a real dumbass sometimes."

John encircled the pillow, and her, and lay down atop the bed. "So I've been told."


	6. Link to Ao3

**Hello, guys! For some reason this site's algorithm keeps freezing my computer (likely because my computer is a piece of shit) but I have posted a lot more on the story's Archive of Your Own link. It's here if y'all wanna read ** /works/21313306/chapters/50755207


End file.
